FRANKENSTEIN

or

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS


By Mary Shelley


Letter 1


To Mrs Saville, England

St. Petersburgh, Dec. 11th, 17--.

You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of 
an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings. I arrived 
here yesterday; and my first task is to assure my dear sister of my welfare, 
and increasing confidence in the success of my undertaking.
I am already far north of London; and as I walk in the streets of Petersburgh, 
I feel a cold northern breeze play upon my cheeks, which braces my nerves, and 
fills me with delight. Do you understand this feeling? This breeze, which has 
travelled from the regions towards which I am advancing, gives me a foretaste 
of those icy climes. Inspirited by this wind of promise, my day dreams become 
more fervent and vivid. I try in vain to be persuaded that the pole is the 
seat of frost and desolation; it ever presents itself to my imagination as the 
region of beauty and delight. There, Margaret, the sun is for ever visible; 
its broad disk just skirting the horizon, and diffusing a perpetual splendour. 
There -for with your leave, my sister, I will put some trust in preceding 
navigators -there snow and frost are banished; and, sailing over a calm sea we 
may be waked to a land surpassing in wonders and in beauty every region 
hitherto discovered on the habitable globe. Its productions and features may 
be without example, as the phenomena of the heavenly bodies undoubtedly are in 
those undiscovered solitudes. What may not be expected in a country of eternal 
light? I may there discover the wondrous power which attracts the needle; and 
may regulate a thousand celestial observations, that require only this voyage 
to render their seeming eccentricities consistent for ever. I shall satiate my 
ardent curiosity with the sight of a part of the world never before visited, 
and may tread a land never before imprinted by the foot of man. These are my 
enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death, 
and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels 
when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of 
discovery up his native river. But, supposing all these conjectures to be 
false, you cannot contest the inestimable benefit which I shall confer on all 
mankind to the last generation, by discovering a passage near the pole to 
those countries, to reach which at present so many months are requisite; or by 
ascertaining the secret of the magnet, which, if at all possible, can only be 
effected by an undertaking such as mine.
These reflections have dispelled the agitation with which I began my letter, 
and I feel my heart glow with an enthusiasm which elevates me to heaven; for 
nothing contributes so much to tranquillise the mind as a steady purpose, -a 
point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye. This expedition has been 
the favourite dream of my early years. I have read with ardour the accounts of 
the various voyages which have been made in the prospect of arriving at the 
North Pacific Ocean through the seas which surround the pole. You may 
remember, that a history of all the voyages made for purposes of discovery 
composed the whole of our good uncle Thomas's library. My education was 
neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. These volumes were my study 
day and night, and my familiarity with them increased that regret which I had 
felt, as a child, on learning that my father's dying injunction had forbidden 
my uncle to allow me to embark in a seafaring life.
These visions faded when I perused, for the first time, those poets whose 
effusions entranced my soul, and lifted it to heaven. I also became a poet and 
for one year lived in a Paradise of my own creation; I imagined that I also 
might obtain a niche in the temple where the names of Homer and Shakespeare 
are consecrated. You are well acquainted with my failure, and how heavily I 
bore the disappointment. But just at that time I inherited the fortune of my 
cousin, and my thoughts were turned into the channel of earlier bent.
Six years have passed since I resolved on my present undertaking. I can, even 
now, remember the hour from which I dedicated myself to this great enterprise. 
I commenced by inuring my body to hardship. I accompanied the whale-fishers on 
several expeditions to the North Sea; I voluntarily endured cold, famine, 
thirst and want of sleep; I often worked harder than the common sailors during 
the day, and devoted my nights to the study of mathematics, the theory of 
medicine, and those branches of physical science from which a naval adventurer 
might derive the greatest practical advantage. Twice I actually hired myself 
as an under-mate in a Greenland whaler, and acquitted myself to admiration. I 
must own I felt a little proud, when my captain offered me the second dignity 
in the vessel, and entreated me to remain with the greatest earnestness; so 
valuable did he consider my services.
And now, dear Margaret, do I not deserve to accomplish some great purpose? My 
life might have been passed in ease and luxury; but I preferred glory to every 
enticement that wealth placed in my path. Oh, that some encouraging voice 
would answer in the affirmative! My courage and my resolution is firm; but my 
hopes fluctuate, and my spirits are often depressed. I am about to proceed on 
a long and difficult voyage, the emergencies of which will demand all my 
fortitude: I am required not only to raise the spirits of others, but 
sometimes to sustain my own, when theirs are failing.
This is the most favourable period for travelling in Russia. They fly quickly 
over the snow in their sledges; the motion is pleasant, and, in my opinion, 
far more agreeable than that of an English stagecoach. The cold is not 
excessive, if you are wrapped in furs, -a dress which I have already adopted; 
for there is a great difference between walking the deck and remaining seated 
motionless for hours, when no exercise prevents the blood from actually 
freezing in your veins. I have no ambition to lose my life on the post-road 
between St. Petersburgh and Archangel.
I shall depart for the latter town in a fortnight or three weeks; and my 
intention is to hire a ship there, which can easily be done by paying the 
insurance for the owner, and to engage as many sailors as I think necessary 
among those who are accustomed to the whale-fishing. I do not intend to sail 
until the month of June; and when shall I return? Ah, dear sister, how can I 
answer this question? If I succeed, many, many months, perhaps years, will 
pass before you and I may meet. If I fail, you will see me again soon, or never.
Farewell, my dear, excellent Margaret. Heaven shower down blessings on you, 
and save me, that I may again and again testify my gratitude for all your love 
and kindness. -Your affectionate brother,
R. WALTON.


Letter 2

To Mrs Saville, England

Archangel, 28th March,17--.

How slowly the time passes here, encompassed as I am by frost and snow! yet a 
second step is taken towards my enterprise. I have hired a vessel, and am 
occupied in collecting my sailors; those whom I have already engaged appear to 
be men on whom I can depend, and are certainly possessed of dauntless courage.
But I have one want which I have never yet been able to satisfy; and the 
absence of the object of which I now feel as a most severe evil. I have no 
friend, Margaret: when I am glowing with the enthusiasm of success, there will 
be none to participate my joy; if I am assailed by disappointment, no one will 
endeavour to sustain me in dejection. I shall commit my thoughts to paper, it 
is true; but that is a poor medium for the communication of feeling. I desire 
the company of a man who could sympathise with me; whose eyes would reply to 
mine. You may deem me romantic, my dear sister, but I bitterly feel the want 
of a friend. I have no one near me, gentle yet courageous, possessed of a 
cultivated as well as of a capacious mind, whose tastes are like my own, to 
approve or amend my plans. How would such a friend repair the faults of your 
poor brother! I am too ardent in execution, and too impatient of difficulties. 
But it is a still greater evil to me that I am self-educated: for the first 
fourteen years of my life I ran wild on a common, and read nothing but our 
uncle Thomas's books of voyages. At that age I became acquainted with the 
celebrated poets of our own country; but it was only when it had ceased to be 
in my power to derive its most important benefits from such a conviction, that 
I perceived the necessity of becoming acquainted with more languages than that 
of my native country. Now I am twenty-eight, and am in reality more illiterate 
than many schoolboys of fifteen. It is true that I have thought more, and that 
my day dreams are more extended and magnificent; but they want (as the 
painters call it) keeping; and I greatly need a friend who would have sense 
enough not to despise me as romantic, and affection enough for me to endeavour 
to regulate my mind.
Well, these are useless complaints; I shall certainly find no friend on the 
wide ocean, nor even here in Archangel, among merchants and seamen. Yet some 
feelings, unallied to the dross of human nature, beat even in these rugged 
bosoms. My lieutenant for instance, is a man of wonderful courage and 
enterprise; he is madly desirous of glory: or rather, to word my phrase more 
characteristically, of advancement in his profession. He is an Englishman, and 
in the midst of national and professional prejudices, unsoftened by 
cultivation, retains some of the noblest endowments of humanity. I first 
became acquainted with him on board a whale vessel: finding that he was 
unemployed in this city, I easily engaged him to assist in my enterprise.
The master is a person of an excellent disposition, and is remarkable in the 
ship for his gentleness and the mildness of his discipline. This circumstance, 
added to his well-known integrity and dauntless courage, made me very desirous 
to engage him. A youth passed in solitude, my best years spent under your 
gentle and feminine fosterage, has so refined the groundwork of my character, 
that I cannot overcome an intense distaste to the usual brutality exercised on 
board ship: I have never believed it to be necessary; and when I heard of a 
mariner equally noted for his kindliness of heart, and the respect and 
obedience paid to him by his crew, I felt myself peculiarly fortunate in being 
able to secure his services. I heard of him first in rather a romantic manner, 
from a lady who owes to him the happiness of her life. This, briefly, is his 
story. Some years ago, he loved a young Russian lady, of moderate fortune; and 
having amassed a considerable sum in prize-money, the father of the girl 
consented to the match. He saw his mistress once before the destined ceremony; 
but she was bathed in tears, and, throwing herself at his feet, entreated him 
to spare her, confessing at the same time that she loved another, but that he 
was poor, and that her father would never consent to the union. My generous 
friend reassured the suppliant, and on being informed of the name of her 
lover, instantly abandoned his pursuit. He had already bought a farm with his 
money, on which he had designed to pass the remainder of his life; but he 
bestowed the whole on his rival, together with the remains of his prize-money 
to purchase stock, and then himself solicited the young woman's father to 
consent to her marriage with her lover. But the old man decidedly refused, 
thinking himself bound in honour to my friend; who, when he found the father 
inexorable, quitted his country, nor returned until he heard that his former 
mistress was married according to her inclinations. "What a noble fellow!" you 
will exclaim. He is so; but then he is wholly uneducated: he is as silent as a 
Turk, and a kind of ignorant carelessness attends him, which, while it renders 
his conduct the more astonishing, detracts from the interest and sympathy 
which otherwise he would command.
Yet do not suppose, because I complain a little, or because I can conceive a 
consolation for my toils which I may never know, that I am wavering in my 
resolutions. Those are as fixed as fate; and my voyage is only now delayed 
until the weather shall permit my embarkation. The winter has been dreadfully 
severe; but the spring promises well, and it is considered as a remarkably 
early season; so that perhaps I may sail sooner than I expected. I shall do 
nothing rashly: you know me sufficiently to confide in my prudence and 
considerateness, whenever the safety of others is committed to my care.
I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking. 
It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trembling 
sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to 
depart. I am going to unexplored regions, to "the land of mist and snow;" but 
I shall kill no albatross, therefore do not be alarmed for my safety, or if I 
should come back to you as worn and woful as the "Ancient Mariner?" You will 
smile at my allusion; but I will disclose a secret. I have often attributed my 
attachment to, my passionate enthusiasm for, the dangerous mysteries of ocean, 
to that production of the most imaginative of modern poets. There is something 
at work in my soul, which I do not understand. I am practically industrious 
-painstaking; -a workman to execute with perseverance and labour: -but besides 
this, there is a love for the marvellous, a belief in the marvellous, 
intertwined in all my projects, which hurries me out of the common pathways of 
men, even to the wild sea and unvisited regions I am about to explore.
But to return to dearer considerations. Shall I meet you again, after having 
traversed immense seas, and returned by the most southern cape of Africa or 
America? I dare not expect such success, yet I cannot bear to look on the 
reverse of the picture. Continue for the present to write to me by every 
opportunity: I may receive your letters on some occasions when I need them 
most to support my spirits. I love you very tenderly. Remember me with 
affection, should you never hear from me again. -Your affectionate brother,
ROBERT WALTON.


Letter 3

To Mrs Saville, England

July 7th, 17--.

My Dear Sister, -I write a few lines in haste, to say that I am safe, and well 
advanced on my voyage. This letter will reach England by a merchantman now on 
its homeward voyage from Archangel; more fortunate than I, who may not see my 
native land perhaps, for many years. I am, however, in good spirits: my men 
are bold, and apparently firm of purpose; nor do the floating sheets of ice 
that continually pass us, indicating the dangers of the region towards which 
we are advancing, appear to dismay them. We have already reached a very high 
latitude; but it is the height of summer, and although not so warm as in 
England, the southern gales, which blow us speedily towards those shores which 
I so ardently desire to attain, breathe a degree of renovating warmth which I 
had not expected.
No incidents have hitherto befallen us that would make a figure in a letter. 
One or two stiff gales, and the springing of a leak, are accidents which 
experienced navigators scarcely remember to record; and I shall be well 
content if nothing worse happen to us during our voyage.
Adieu, my dear Margaret. Be assured, that for my own sake, as well as yours, I 
will not rashly encounter danger. I will be cool, persevering, and prudent.
But success shall crown my endeavours. Wherefore not? Thus far I have gone, 
tracing a secure way over the pathless seas; the very stars themselves being 
witnesses and testimonies of my triumph. Why not still proceed over the 
untamed yet obedient element? What can stop the determined heart and resolved 
will of man?
My swelling heart involuntarily pours itself out thus. But I must finish. 
Heaven bless my beloved sister!
R.W.


Letter 4

To Mrs Saville, England

August 5th, 17--.

So strange an accident has happened to us, that I cannot forbear recording it, 
although it is very probable that you will see me before these papers can come 
into your possession.
Last Monday (July 3lst), we were nearly surrounded by ice, which closed in the 
ship on all sides, scarcely leaving her the sea-room in which she floated. Our 
situation was somewhat dangerous, especially as we were compassed round by a 
very thick fog. We accordingly lay to, hoping that some change would take 
place in the atmosphere and weather.
About two o'clock the mist cleared away, and we beheld, stretched out in every 
direction, vast and irregular plains of ice, which seemed to have no end. Some 
of my comrades groaned, and my own mind began to grow watchful with anxious 
thoughts, when a strange sight suddenly attracted our attention, and diverted 
our solicitude from our own situation. We perceived a low carriage, fixed on a 
sledge and drawn by dogs, pass on towards the north, at the distance of half a 
mile: a being which had the shape of a man, but apparently of gigantic 
stature, sat in the sledge, and guided the dogs. We watched the rapid progress 
of the traveller with our telescopes, until he was lost among the distant 
inequalities of the ice.
This appearance excited our unqualified wonder. We were, as we believed, many 
hundred miles from any land; but this apparition seemed to denote that it was 
not, in reality, so distant as we had supposed. Shut in, however, by ice, it 
was impossible to follow his track, which we had observed with the greatest 
attention.
About two hours after this occurrence, we heard the ground sea; and before 
night the ice broke, and freed our ship. We, however, lay to until the 
morning, fearing to encounter in the dark those large loose masses which float 
about after the breaking up of the ice. I profited of this time to rest for a 
few hours.
In the morning, however, as soon as it was light, I went upon deck, and found 
all the sailors busy on one side of the vessel, apparently talking to some one 
in the sea. It was, in fact, a sledge, like that we had seen before, which had 
drifted towards us in the night, on a large fragment of ice. Only one dog 
remained alive; but there was a human being within it, whom the sailors were 
persuading to enter the vessel. He was not, as the other traveller seemed to 
be, a savage inhabitant of some undiscovered island, but an European. When I 
appeared on deck, the master said, "Here is our captain, and he will not allow 
you to perish on the open sea."
On perceiving me, the stranger addressed me in English, although with a 
foreign accent. "Before I come on board your vessel," said he, "will you have 
the kindness to inform me whither you are bound?"
You may conceive my astonishment on hearing such a question addressed to me 
from a man on the brink of destruction, and to whom I should have supposed 
that my vessel would have been a resource which he would not have exchanged 
for the most precious wealth the earth can afford. I replied, however, that we 
were on a voyage of discovery towards the northern pole.
Upon hearing this he appeared satisfied, and consented to come on board. Good 
God! Margaret, if you had seen the man who thus capitulated for his safety, 
your surprise would have been boundless. His limbs were nearly frozen, and his 
body dreadfully emaciated by fatigue and suffering. I never saw a man in so 
wretched a condition. We attempted to carry him into the cabin; but as soon as 
he had quitted the fresh air, he fainted. We accordingly brought him back to 
the deck, and restored him to animation by rubbing him with brandy, and 
forcing him to swallow a small quantity. As soon as he showed signs of life we 
wrapped him up in blankets, and placed him near the chimney of the kitchen 
stove. By slow degrees he recovered, and ate a little soup, which restored him 
wonderfully.
Two days passed in this manner before he was able to speak; and I often feared 
that his suffering had deprived him of understanding. When he had in some 
measure recovered, I removed him to my own cabin, and attended on him as much 
as my duty would permit. I never saw a more interesting creature: his eyes 
have generally an expression of wildness, and even madness; but there are 
moments when, if any one performs an act of kindness towards him, or does him 
any the most trifling service, his whole countenance is lighted up, as it 
were, with a beam of benevolence and sweetness that I never saw equalled. But 
he is generally melancholy and despairing; and sometimes he gnashes his teeth, 
as if impatient of the weight of woes that oppresses him.
When my guest was a little recovered, I had great trouble to keep off the men, 
who wished to ask him a thousand questions; but I would not allow him to be 
tormented by their idle curiosity, in a state of body and mind whose 
restoration evidently depended upon entire repose. Once, however, the 
lieutenant asked, Why he had come so far upon the ice in so strange a vehicle?
His countenance instantly assumed an aspect of the deepest gloom; and he 
replied, "To seek one who fled from me."
"And did the man whom you pursued travel in the same fashion?"
"Yes."
"Then I fancy we have seen him; for the day before we picked you up, we saw 
some dogs drawing a sledge, with a man in it, across the ice."
This aroused the stranger's attention; and he asked a multitude of questions 
concerning the route which the daemon, as he called him, had pursued. Soon 
after, when he was alone with me, he said, -"I have, doubtless, excited your 
curiosity, as well as that of these good people; but you are too considerate 
to make enquiries."
"Certainly; it would indeed be very impertinent and inhuman in me to trouble 
you with any inquisitiveness of mine."
"And yet you rescued me from a strange and perilous situation; you have 
benevolently restored me to life."
Soon after this he enquired if I thought that the breaking up of the ice had 
destroyed the other sledge? I replied, that I could not answer with any degree 
of certainty; for the ice had not broken until near midnight, and the 
traveller might have arrived at a place of safety before that time; but of 
this I could not judge.
From this time a new spirit of life animated the decaying frame of the 
stranger. He manifested the greatest eagerness to be upon deck, to watch for 
the sledge which had before appeared; but I have persuaded him to remain in 
the cabin, for he is far too weak to sustain the rawness of the atmosphere. I 
have promised that some one should watch for him, and give him instant notice 
if any new object should appear in sight.
Such is my journal of what relates to this strange occurrence up to the 
present day. The stranger has gradually improved in health, but is very 
silent, and appears uneasy when any one except myself enters his cabin. Yet 
his manners are so conciliating and gentle, that the sailors are all 
interested in him, although they have had very little communication with him. 
For my own part, I begin to love him as a brother; and his constant and deep 
grief fills me with sympathy and compassion. He must have been a noble 
creature in his better days, being even now in wreck so attractive and amiable.
I said in one of my letters, my dear Margaret, that I should find no friend on 
the wide ocean; yet I have found a man who, before his spirit had been broken 
by misery, I should have been happy to have possessed as the brother of my 
heart.
I shall continue my journal concerning the stranger at intervals, should I 
have any fresh incidents to record.

August 13th, 17--.

My affection for my guest increases every day. He excites at once my 
admiration and my pity to an astonishing degree. How can I see so noble a 
creature destroyed by misery, without feeling the most poignant grief? He is 
so gentle, yet so wise; his mind is so cultivated; and when he speaks, 
although his words are culled with the choicest art, yet they flow with 
rapidity and unparalleled eloquence.
He is now much recovered from his illness, and is continually on the deck, 
apparently watching for the sledge that preceded his own. Yet, although 
unhappy, he is not so utterly occupied by his own misery, but that he 
interests himself deeply in the projects of others. He has frequently 
conversed with me on mine, which I have communicated to him without disguise. 
He entered attentively into all my arguments in favour of my eventual success, 
and into every minute detail of the measures I had taken to secure it. I was 
easily led by the sympathy which he evinced, to use the language of my heart; 
to give utterance to the burning ardour of my soul; and to say, with all the 
fervour that warmed me, how gladly I would sacrifice my fortune, my existence, 
my every hope, to the furtherance of my enterprise. One man's life or death 
were but a small price to pay for the acquirement of the knowledge which I 
sought; for the dominion I should acquire and transmit over the elemental foes 
of our race. As I spoke, a dark gloom spread over my listener's countenance. 
At first I perceived that he tried to suppress his emotion; he placed his 
hands before his eyes; and my voice quivered and failed me, as I beheld tears 
trickle fast from between his fingers, -a groan burst from his heaving breast. 
I paused; -at length he spoke, in broken accents: -"Unhappy man! Do you share 
my madness? Have you drank also of the intoxicating draught? Hear me, -let me 
reveal my tale, and you will dash the cup from your lips!" Such words, you may 
imagine, strongly excited my curiosity; but the paroxysm of grief that had 
seized the stranger overcame his weakened powers, and many hours of repose and 
tranquil conversation were necessary to restore his composure.
Having conquered the violence of his feelings, he appeared to despise himself 
for being the slave of passion; and quelling the dark tyranny of despair, he 
led me again to converse concerning myself personally. He asked me the history 
of my earlier years. The tale was quickly told; but it awakened various trains 
of reflection. I spoke of my desire of finding a friend -of my thirst for a 
more intimate sympathy with a fellow mind than had ever fallen to my lot; and 
expressed my conviction that a man could boast of little happiness, who did 
not enjoy this blessing.
"I agree with you," replied the stranger; "we are unfashioned creatures, but 
half made up, if one wiser, better, dearer than ourselves -such a friend ought 
to be -do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures. I 
once had a friend, the most noble of human creatures, and am entitled, 
therefore, to judge respecting friendship. You have hope, and the world before 
you, and have no cause for despair. But I -I have lost every thing, and cannot 
begin life anew."
As he said this, his countenance became expressive of a calm settled grief, 
that touched me to the heart. But he was silent, and presently retired to his 
cabin.
Even broken in spirit as he is, no one can feel more deeply than he does the 
beauties of nature. The starry sky, the sea, and every sight afforded by these 
wonderful regions, seems still to have the power of elevating his soul from 
earth. Such a man has a double existence: he may suffer misery, and be 
overwhelmed by disappointments; yet, when he has retired into himself, he will 
be like a celestial spirit, that has a halo around him, within whose circle no 
grief or folly ventures.
Will you smile at the enthusiasm I express concerning this divine wanderer? 
You would not, if you saw him. You have been tutored and refined by books and 
retirement from the world, and you are, therefore, somewhat fastidious; but 
this only renders you the more fit to appreciate the extraordinary merits of 
this wonderful man. Sometimes I have endeavoured to discover what quality it 
is which he possesses, that elevates him so immeasurably above any other 
person I ever knew. I believe it to be an intuitive discernment; a quick but 
never-failing power of judgment; a penetration into the causes of things, 
unequalled for clearness and precision; add to this a facility of expression, 
and a voice whose varied intonations are soul-subduing music.

August 19, 17--.

Yesterday the stranger said to me, "You may easily perceive, Captain Walton, 
that I have suffered great and unparalleled misfortunes. I had determined, at 
one time, that the memory of these evils should die with me; but you have won 
me to alter my determination. You seek for knowledge and wisdom, as I once 
did; and I ardently hope that the gratification of your wishes may not be a 
serpent to sting you, as mine has been. I do not know that the relation of my 
disasters will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the 
same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what 
I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale; one that may 
direct you if you succeed in your undertaking, and console you in case of 
failure. Prepare to hear of occurrences which are usually deemed marvellous. 
Were we among the tamer scenes of nature, I might fear to encounter your 
unbelief, perhaps your ridicule; but many things will appear possible in these 
wild and mysterious regions, which would provoke the laughter of those 
unacquainted with the ever-varied powers of nature: -nor can I doubt but that 
my tale conveys in its series internal evidence of the truth of the events of 
which it is composed."
You may easily imagine that I was much gratified by the offered communication; 
yet I could not endure that he should renew his grief by a recital of his 
misfortunes. I felt the greatest eagerness to hear the promised narrative, 
partly from curiosity, and partly from a strong desire to ameliorate his fate, 
if it were in my power. I expressed these feelings in my answer.
"I thank you," he replied, "for your sympathy, but it is useless; my fate is 
nearly fulfilled. I wait but for one event, and then I shall repose in peace. 
I understand your feeling," continued he, perceiving that I wished to 
interrupt him; "but you are mistaken, my friend, if thus you will allow me to 
name you; nothing can alter my destiny: listen to my history, and you will 
perceive how irrevocably it is determined."
He then told me, that he would commence his narrative the next day when I 
should be at leisure. This promise drew from me the warmer thanks. I have 
resolved every night, when I am not imperatively occupied by my duties, to 
record, as nearly as possible in his own words, what he has related during the 
day. If I should be engaged, I will at least make notes. This manuscript will 
doubtless afford you the greatest pleasure: but to me, who know him, and who 
hear it from his own lips, with what interest and sympathy shall I read it in 
some future day! Even now, as I commence my task, his full-toned voice swells 
in my ears; his lustrous eyes dwell on me with all their melancholy sweetness; 
I see his thin hand raised in animation, while the lineaments of his face are 
irradiated by the soul within. Strange and harrowing must be his story; 
frightful the storm which embraced the gallant vessel on its course, and 
wrecked it -thus!


Chapter 1

I am by birth a Genevese; and my family is one of the most distinguished of 
that republic. My ancestors had been for many years counsellors and syndics; 
and my father had filled several public situations with honour and reputation. 
He was respected by all who knew him, for his integrity and indefatigable 
attention to public business. He passed his younger days perpetually occupied 
by the affairs of his country; a variety of circumstances had prevented his 
marrying early, nor was it until the decline of life that he became a husband 
and the father of a family.
As the circumstances of his marriage illustrate his character, I cannot 
refrain from relating them. One of his most intimate friends was a merchant, 
who, from a flourishing state, fell, through numerous mischances, into 
poverty. This man, whose name was Beaufort, was of a proud and unbending 
disposition, and could not bear to live in poverty and oblivion in the same 
country where he had formerly been distinguished for his rank and 
magnificence. Having paid his debts, therefore, in the most honourable manner, 
he retreated with his daughter to the town of Lucerne, where he lived unknown 
and in wretchedness. My father loved Beaufort with the truest friendship, and 
was deeply grieved by his retreat in these unfortunate circumstances. He 
bitterly deplored the false pride which led his friend to a conduct so little 
worthy of the affection that united them. He lost no time in endeavouring to 
seek him out, with the hope of persuading him to begin the world again through 
his credit and assistance.
Beaufort had taken effectual measures to conceal himself; and it was ten 
months before my father discovered his abode. Overjoyed at this discovery, he 
hastened to the house, which was situated in a mean street near the Reuss. But 
when he entered misery and despair alone welcomed him. Beaufort had saved but 
a very small sum of money from the wreck of his fortunes; but it was 
sufficient to provide him with sustenance for some months, and in the mean 
time he hoped to procure some respectable employment in a merchant's house. 
The interval was, consequently, spent in inaction; his grief only became more 
deep and rankling, when he had leisure for reflection; and at length it took 
so fast hold of his mind, that at the end of three months he lay on a bed of 
sickness, incapable of any exertion.
His daughter attended him with the greatest tenderness; but she saw with 
despair that their little fund was rapidly decreasing and that there was no 
other prospect of support. But Caroline Beaufort possessed a mind of an 
uncommon mould; and her courage rose to support her in her adversity. She 
procured plain work; she plaited straw; and by various means contrived to earn 
a pittance scarcely sufficient to support life.
Several months passed in this manner. Her father grew worse; her time was more 
entirely occupied in attending him; her means of subsistence decreased; and in 
the tenth month her father died in her arms, leaving her an orphan and a 
beggar. This last blow overcame her; and she knelt by Beaufort's coffin, 
weeping bitterly, when my father entered the chamber. He came like a 
protecting spirit to the poor girl, who committed herself to his care; and 
after the interment of his friend he conducted her to Geneva and placed her 
under the protection of a relation. Two years after this event Caroline became 
his wife.
There was a considerable difference between the ages of my parents, but this 
circumstance seemed to unite them only closer in bonds of devoted affection. 
There was a sense of justice in my father's upright mind, which rendered it 
necessary that he should approve highly to love strongly. Perhaps during 
former years he had suffered from the late-discovered unworthiness of one 
beloved, and so was disposed to set a greater value on tried worth. There was 
a show of gratitude and worship in his attachment to my mother, differing 
wholly from the doting fondness of age, for it was inspired by reverence for 
her virtues, and a desire to be the means of, in some degree, recompensing her 
for the sorrows she had endured, but which gave inexpressible grace to his 
behaviour to her. Every thing was made to yield to her wishes and her 
convenience. He strove to shelter her, as a fair exotic is sheltered by the 
gardener, from every rougher wind, and to surround her with all that could 
tend to excite pleasurable emotion in her soft and benevolent mind. Her 
health, and even the tranquillity of her hitherto constant spirit, had been 
shaken by what she had gone through. During the two years that had elapsed 
previous to their marriage my father had gradually relinquished all his public 
functions; and immediately after their union they sought the pleasant climate 
of Italy, and the change of scene and interest attendant on a tour through 
that land of wonders, as a restorative for her weakened frame.
From Italy they visited Germany and France. I, their eldest child, was born at 
Naples, and as an infant accompanied them in their rambles. I remained for 
several years their only child. Much as they were attached to each other, they 
seemed to draw inexhaustible stores of affection from a very mine of love to 
bestow them upon me. My mother's tender caresses, and my father's smile of 
benevolent pleasure while regarding me, are my first recollections. I was 
their plaything and their idol, and something better -their child, the 
innocent and helpless creature bestowed on them by Heaven, whom to bring up to 
good, and whose future lot it was in their hands to direct to happiness or 
misery, according as they fulfilled their duties towards me. With this deep 
consciousness of what they owed towards the being to which they had given 
life, added to the active spirit of tenderness that animated both, it may be 
imagined that while during every hour of my infant life I received a lesson of 
patience, of charity, and of self control, I was so guided by a silken cord, 
that all seemed but one train of enjoyment to me.
For a long time I was their only care. My mother had much desired to have a 
daughter, but I continued their single offspring. When I was about five years 
old, while making an excursion beyond the frontiers of Italy, they passed a 
week on the shores of the Lake of Como. Their benevolent disposition often 
made them enter the cottages of the poor. This, to my mother, was more than a 
duty; it was a necessity, a passion, -remembering what she had suffered, and 
how she had been relieved, -for her to act in her turn the guardian angel to 
the afflicted. During one of their walks a poor cot in the foldings of a vale 
attracted their notice, as being singularly disconsolate, while the number of 
half-clothed children gathered about it, spoke of penury in its worst shape. 
One day, when my father had gone by himself to Milan, my mother, accompanied 
by me, visited this abode. She found a peasant and his wife, hard working, 
bent down by care and labour, distributing a scanty meal to five hungry babes. 
Among these there was one which attracted my mother far above all the rest. 
She appeared of a different stock. The four others were dark-eyed, hardy 
little vagrants; this child was thin, and very fair. Her hair was the 
brightest living gold, and, despite the poverty of her clothing, seemed to set 
a crown of distinction on her head. Her brow was clear and ample, her blue 
eyes cloudless, and her lips and the moulding of her face so expressive of 
sensibility and sweetness, that none could behold her without looking on her 
as of a distinct species, a being heaven-sent, and bearing a celestial stamp 
in all her features.
The peasant woman, perceiving that my mother fixed eyes of wonder and 
admiration on this lovely girl, eagerly communicated her history. She was not 
her child, but the daughter of a Milanese nobleman. Her mother was a German, 
and had died on giving her birth. The infant had been placed with these good 
people to nurse: they were better off then. They had not been long married, 
and their eldest child was but just born. The father of their charge was one 
of those Italians nursed in the memory of the antique glory of Italy, -one 
among the schiavi ognor frementi, who exerted himself to obtain the liberty of 
his country. He became the victim of its weakness. Whether he had died, or 
still lingered in the dungeons of Austria, was not known. His property was 
confiscated, his child became an orphan and a beggar. She continued with her 
foster parents, and bloomed in their rude abode, fairer than a garden rose 
among dark-leafed brambles.
When my father returned from Milan, he found playing with me in the hall of 
our villa, a child fairer than pictured cherub -a creature who seemed to shed 
radiance from her looks, and whose form and motions were lighter than the 
chamois of the hills. The apparition was soon explained. With his permission 
my mother prevailed on her rustic guardians to yield their charge to her. They 
were fond of the sweet orphan. Her presence had seemed a blessing to them; but 
it would be unfair to her to keep her in poverty and want, when Providence 
afforded her such powerful protection. They consulted their village priest, 
and the result was, that Elizabeth Lavenza became the inmate of my parents' 
house -my more than sister -the beautiful and adored companion of all my 
occupations and my pleasures.
Every one loved Elizabeth. The passionate and almost reverential attachment 
with which all regarded her became, while I shared it, my pride and my 
delight. On the evening previous to her being brought to my home, my mother 
had said playfully, -"I have a pretty present for my Victor -tomorrow he shall 
have it." And when, on the morrow, she presented Elizabeth to me as her 
promised gift, I, with childish seriousness, interpreted her words literally, 
and looked upon Elizabeth as mine -mine to protect, love, and cherish. All 
praises bestowed on her, I received as made to a possession of my own. We 
called each other familiarly by the name of cousin. No word, no expression 
could body forth the kind of relation in which she stood to me -my more than 
sister, since till death she was to be mine only.


Chapter 2

We were brought up together; there was not quite a year difference in our 
ages. I need not say that we were strangers to any species of disunion or 
dispute. Harmony was the soul of our companionship, and the diversity and 
contrast that subsisted in our characters drew us nearer together. Elizabeth 
was of a calmer and more concentrated disposition; but, with all my ardour, I 
was capable of a more intense application, and was more deeply smitten with 
the thirst for knowledge. She busied herself with following the aerial 
creations of the poets; and in the majestic and wondrous scenes which 
surrounded our Swiss home -the sublime shapes of the mountains; the changes of 
the seasons; tempest and calm; the silence of winter, and the life and 
turbulence of our Alpine summers, -she found ample scope for admiration and 
delight. While my companion contemplated with a serious and satisfied spirit 
the magnificent appearances of things, I delighted in investigating their 
causes. The world was to me a secret which I desired to divine. Curiosity, 
earnest research to learn the hidden laws of nature, gladness akin to rapture, 
as they were unfolded to me, are among the earliest sensations I can remember.
On the birth of a second son, my junior by seven years, my parents gave up 
entirely their wandering life, and fixed themselves in their native country. 
We possessed a house in Geneva, and a campagne on Belrive, the eastern shore 
of the lake, at the distance of rather more than a league from the city. We 
resided principally in the latter, and the lives of my parents were passed in 
considerable seclusion. It was my temper to avoid a crowd, and to attach 
myself fervently to a few. I was indifferent, therefore, to my schoolfellows 
in general; but I united myself in the bonds of the closest friendship to one 
among them. Henry Clerval was the son of a merchant of Geneva. He was a boy of 
singular talent and fancy. He loved enterprise, hardship, and even danger, for 
its own sake. He was deeply read in books of chivalry and romance. He composed 
heroic songs, and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly 
adventure. He tried to make us act plays, and to enter into masquerades, in 
which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Roncesvalles, of the Round 
Table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem 
the holy sepulchre from the hands of the infidels.
No human being could have passed a happier childhood than myself. My parents 
were possessed by the very spirit of kindness and indulgence. We felt that 
they were not the tyrants to rule our lot according to their caprice, but the 
agents and creators of all the many delights which we enjoyed. When I mingled 
with other families, I distinctly discerned how peculiarly fortunate my lot 
was, and gratitude assisted the development of filial love.
My temper was sometimes violent, and my passions vehement; but by some law in 
my temperature they were turned, not towards childish pursuits, but to an 
eager desire to learn, and not to learn all things indiscriminately. I confess 
that neither the structure of languages, nor the code of governments, nor the 
politics of various states, possessed attractions for me. It was the secrets 
of heaven and earth that I desired to learn; and whether it was the outward 
substance of things, or the inner spirit of nature and the mysterious soul of 
man that occupied me, still my enquiries were directed to the metaphysical, 
or, in its highest sense, the physical secrets of the world.
Meanwhile Clerval occupied himself, so to speak, with the moral relations of 
things. The busy stage of life, the virtues of heroes, and the actions of men, 
were his theme; and his hope and his dream was to become one among those whose 
names are recorded in story, as the gallant and adventurous benefactors of our 
species. The saintly soul of Elizabeth shone like a shrine-dedicated lamp in 
our peaceful home. Her sympathy was ours; her smile, her soft voice, the sweet 
glance of her celestial eyes, were ever there to bless and animate us. She was 
the living spirit of love to soften and attract: I might have become sullen in 
my study, rough through the ardour of my nature, but that she was there to 
subdue me to a semblance of her own gentleness. And Clerval -could aught ill 
entrench on the noble spirit of Clerval? -yet he might not have been so 
perfectly humane, so thoughtful in his generosity -so full of kindness and 
tenderness amidst his passion for adventurous exploit, had she not unfolded to 
him the real loveliness of beneficence, and made the doing good the end and 
aim of his soaring ambition.
I feel exquisite pleasure in dwelling on the recollections of childhood, 
before misfortune had tainted my mind, and changed its bright visions of 
extensive usefulness into gloomy and narrow reflections upon self. Besides, in 
drawing the picture of my early days, I also record those events which led, by 
insensible steps, to my after tale of misery: for when I would account to 
myself for the birth of that passion, which afterwards ruled my destiny, I 
find it arise, like a mountain river, from ignoble and almost forgotten 
sources; but, swelling as it proceeded, it became the torrent which, in its 
course, has swept away all my hopes and joys.
Natural philosophy is the genius that has regulated my fate; I desire, 
therefore, in this narration, to state those facts which led to my 
predilection for that science. When I was thirteen years of age, we all went 
on a party of pleasure to the baths near Thonon; the inclemency of the weather 
obliged us to remain a day confined to the inn. In this house I chanced to 
find a volume of the works of Cornelius Agrippa. I opened it with apathy; the 
theory which he attempts to demonstrate and the wonderful facts which he 
relates, soon changed this feeling into enthusiasm. A new light seemed to dawn 
upon my mind; and, bounding with joy, I communicated my discovery to my 
father. My father looked carelessly at the title-page of my book, and said, 
"Ah! Cornelius Agrippa! My dear Victor, do not waste your time upon this; it 
is sad trash."
If, instead of this remark, my father had taken the pains to explain to me, 
that the principles of Agrippa had been entirely exploded, and that a modern 
system of science had been introduced, which possessed much greater powers 
than the ancient, because the powers of the latter were chimerical, while 
those of the former were real and practical; under such circumstances, I 
should certainly have thrown Agrippa aside, and have contented my imagination, 
warmed as it was, by returning with greater ardour to my former studies. It is 
even possible, that the train of my ideas would never have received the fatal 
impulse that led to my ruin. But the cursory glance my father had taken of my 
volume by no means assured me that he was acquainted with its contents; and I 
continued to read with the greatest avidity.
When I returned home, my first care was to procure the whole works of this 
author, and afterwards of Paracelsus and Albertus Magnus. I read and studied 
the wild fancies of these writers with delight; they appeared to me treasures 
known to few beside myself. I have described myself as always having been 
imbued with a fervent longing to penetrate the secrets of nature. In spite of 
the intense labour and wonderful discoveries of modern philosophers, I always 
came from my studies discontented and unsatisfied. Sir Isaac Newton is said to 
have avowed that he felt like a child picking up shells beside the great and 
unexplored ocean of truth. Those of his successors in each branch of natural 
philosophy with whom I was acquainted, appeared even to my boy's 
apprehensions, as tyros engaged in the same pursuit.
The untaught peasant beheld the elements around him, and was acquainted with 
their practical uses. The most learned philosopher knew little more. He had 
partially unveiled the face of Nature, but her immortal lineaments were still 
a wonder and a mystery. He might dissect, anatomise, and give names; but, not 
to speak of a final cause, causes in their secondary and tertiary grades were 
utterly unknown to him. I had gazed upon the fortifications and impediments 
that seemed to keep human beings from entering the citadel of nature, and 
rashly and ignorantly I had repined.
But here were books, and here were men who had penetrated deeper and knew 
more. I took their word for all that they averred, and I became their 
disciple. It may appear strange that such should arise in the eighteenth 
century; but while I followed the routine of education in the schools of 
Geneva, I was, to a great degree, self taught with regard to my favourite 
studies. My father was not scientific, and I was left to struggle with a 
child's blindness, added to a student's thirst for knowledge. Under the 
guidance of my new preceptors, I entered with the greatest diligence into the 
search of the philosopher's stone and the elixir of life; but the latter soon 
obtained my undivided attention. Wealth was an inferior object; but what glory 
would attend the discovery, if I could banish disease from the human frame, 
and render man invulnerable to any but a violent death!
Nor were these my only visions. The raising of ghosts or devils was a promise 
liberally accorded by my favourite authors, the fulfilment of which I most 
eagerly sought; and if my incantations were always unsuccessful, I attributed 
the failure rather to my own inexperience and mistake, than to a want of skill 
or fidelity in my instructors. And thus for a time I was occupied by exploded 
systems, mingling, like an unadept, a thousand contradictory theories, and 
floundering desperately in a very slough of multifarious knowledge, guided by 
an ardent imagination and childish reasoning, till an accident again changed 
the current of my ideas.
When I was about fifteen years old we had retired to our house near Belrive, 
when we witnessed a most violent and terrible thunderstorm. It advanced from 
behind the mountains of Jura; and the thunder burst at once with frightful 
loudness from various quarters of the heavens. I remained, while the storm 
lasted, watching its progress with curiosity and delight. As I stood at the 
door, on a sudden I beheld a stream of fire issue from an old and beautiful 
oak, which stood about twenty yards from our house; and so soon as the 
dazzling light vanished, the oak had disappeared, and nothing remained but a 
blasted stump. When we visited it the next morning, we found the tree 
shattered in a singular manner. It was not splintered by the shock, but 
entirely reduced to thin ribands of wood. I never beheld any thing so utterly 
destroyed.
Before this I was not unacquainted with the more obvious laws of electricity. 
On this occasion a man of great research in natural philosophy was with us, 
and, excited by this catastrophe, he entered on the explanation of a theory 
which he had formed on the subject of electricity and galvanism, which was at 
once new and astonishing to me. All that he said threw greatly into the shade 
Cornelius Agrippa, Albertus Magnus, and Paracelsus, the lords of my 
imagination; but by some fatality the overthrow of these men disinclined me to 
pursue my accustomed studies. It seemed to me as if nothing would or could 
ever be known. All that had so long engaged my attention suddenly grew 
despicable. By one of those caprices of the mind, which we are perhaps most 
subject to in early youth, I at once gave up my former occupations; set down 
natural history and all its progeny as a deformed and abortive creation; and 
entertained the greatest disdain for a would-be science, which could never 
even step within the threshold of real knowledge. In this mood of mind I 
betook myself to the mathematics, and the branches of study appertaining to 
that science, as being built upon secure foundations, and so worthy of my 
consideration.
Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by such slight ligaments are we 
bound to prosperity or ruin. When I look back, it seems to me as if this 
almost miraculous change of inclination and will was the immediate suggestion 
of the guardian angel of my life -the last effort made by the spirit of 
preservation to avert the storm that was even then hanging in the stars, and 
ready to envelope me. Her victory was announced by an unusual tranquillity and 
gladness of soul, which followed the relinquishing of my ancient and latterly 
tormenting studies. It was thus that I was to be taught to associate evil with 
their prosecution, happiness with their disregard.
It was a strong effort of the spirit of good; but it was ineffectual. Destiny 
was too potent, and her immutable laws had decreed my utter and terrible 
destruction.


Chapter 3

When I had attained the age of seventeen, my parents resolved that I should 
become a student at the university of Ingolstadt. I had hitherto attended the 
schools of Geneva; but my father thought it necessary, for the completion of 
my education, that I should be made acquainted with other customs than those 
of my native country. My departure was therefore fixed at an early date; but, 
before the day resolved upon could arrive, the first misfortune of my life 
occurred -an omen, as it were, of my future misery.
Elizabeth had caught the scarlet fever; her illness was severe, and she was in 
the greatest danger. During her illness, many arguments had been urged to 
persuade my mother to refrain from attending upon her. She had, at first, 
yielded to our entreaties; but when she heard that the life of her favourite 
was menaced, she could no longer control her anxiety. She attended her sick 
bed, -her watchful attentions triumphed over the malignity of the distemper, 
-Elizabeth was saved, but the consequences of this imprudence were fatal to 
her preserver. On the third day my mother sickened; her fever was accompanied 
by the most alarming symptoms, and the looks of her medical attendants 
prognosticated the worst event. On her death-bed the fortitude and benignity 
of this best of women did not desert her. She joined the hands of Elizabeth 
and myself: -"My children," she said, "my firmest hopes of future happiness 
were placed on the prospect of your union. This expectation will now be the 
consolation of your father. Elizabeth, my love, you must supply my place to my 
younger children. Alas! I regret that I am taken from you; and, happy and 
beloved as I have been, is it not hard to quit you all? But these are not 
thoughts befitting me; I will endeavour to resign myself cheerfully to death, 
and will indulge a hope of meeting you in another world."
She died calmly; and her countenance expressed affection even in death. I need 
not describe the feelings of those whose dearest ties are rent by that most 
irreparable evil; the void that presents itself to the soul; and the despair 
that is exhibited on the countenance. It is so long before the mind can 
persuade itself that she, whom we saw every day, and whose very existence 
appeared a part of our own, can have departed for ever -that the brightness of 
a beloved eye can have been extinguished, and the sound of a voice so 
familiar, and dear to the ear, can be hushed, never more to be heard. These 
are the reflections of the first days; but when the lapse of time proves the 
reality of the evil, then the actual bitterness of grief commences. Yet from 
whom has not that rude hand rent away some dear connection? and why should I 
describe a sorrow which all have felt, and must feel? The time at length 
arrives, when grief is rather an indulgence than a necessity; and the smile 
that plays upon the lips, although it may be deemed a sacrilege, is not 
banished. My mother was dead, but we had still duties which we ought to 
perform; we must continue our course with the rest, and learn to think 
ourselves fortunate, whilst one remains whom the spoiler has not seized.
My departure for Ingolstadt, which had been deferred by these events, was now 
again determined upon. I obtained from my father a respite of some weeks. It 
appeared to me sacrilege so soon to leave the repose, akin to death, of the 
house of mourning, and to rush into the thick of life. I was new to sorrow, 
but it did not the less alarm me. I was unwilling to quit the sight of those 
that remained to me; and, above all, I desired to see my sweet Elizabeth in 
some degree consoled.
She indeed veiled her grief, and strove to act the comforter to us all. She 
looked steadily on life, and assumed its duties with courage and zeal. She 
devoted herself to those whom she had been taught to call her uncle and 
cousins. Never was she so enchanting as at this time, when she recalled the 
sunshine of her smiles and spent them upon us. She forgot even her own regret 
in her endeavours to make us forget.
The day of my departure at length arrived. Clerval spent the last evening with 
us. He had endeavoured to persuade his father to permit him to accompany me, 
and to become my fellow student; but in vain. His father was a narrow-minded 
trader, and saw idleness and ruin in the aspirations and ambition of his son. 
Henry deeply felt the misfortune of being debarred from a liberal education. 
He said little; but when he spoke, I read in his kindling eye and in his 
animated glance a restrained but firm resolve, not to be chained to the 
miserable details of commerce.
We sat late. We could not tear ourselves away from each other, nor persuade 
ourselves to say the word "Farewell!" It was said; and we retired under the 
pretence of seeking repose, each fancying that the other was deceived: but 
when at morning's dawn I descended to the carriage which was to convey me 
away, they were all there -my father again to bless me, Clerval to press my 
hand once more, my Elizabeth to renew her entreaties that I would write often, 
and to bestow the last feminine attentions on her playmate and friend.
I threw myself into the chaise that was to convey me away, and indulged in the 
most melancholy reflections. I, who had ever been surrounded by amiable 
companions, continually engaged in endeavouring to bestow mutual pleasure, I 
was now alone. In the university, whither I was going, I must form my own 
friends, and be my own protector. My life had hitherto been remarkably 
secluded and domestic; and this had given me invincible repugnance to new 
countenances. I loved my brothers, Elizabeth, and Clerval; these were "old 
familiar faces;" but I believed myself totally unfitted for the company of 
strangers. Such were my reflections as I commenced my journey; but as I 
proceeded, my spirits and hopes rose. I ardently desired the acquisition of 
knowledge. I had often, when at home, thought it hard to remain during my 
youth cooped up in one place, and had longed to enter the world, and take my 
station among other human beings. Now my desires were complied with, and it 
would, indeed, have been folly to repent.
I had sufficient leisure for these and many other reflections during my 
journey to Ingolstadt, which was long and fatiguing. At length the high white 
steeple of the town met my eyes. I alighted, and was conducted to my solitary 
apartment, to spend the evening as I pleased.
The next morning I delivered my letters of introduction, and paid a visit to 
some of the principal professors. Chance -or rather the evil influence, the 
Angel of Destruction, which asserted omnipotent sway over me from the moment I 
turned my reluctant steps from my father's door -led me first to M. Krempe, 
professor of natural philosophy. He was an uncouth man, but deeply imbued in 
the secrets of his science. He asked me several questions concerning my 
progress in the different branches of science appertaining to natural 
philosophy. I replied carelessly; and, partly in contempt, mentioned the names 
of my alchemists as the principal authors I had studied. The professor stared: 
"Have you," he said, "really spent your time in studying such nonsense?"
I replied in the affirmative. "Every minute," continued M. Krempe with warmth, 
"every instant that you have wasted on those books is utterly and entirely 
lost. You have burdened your memory with exploded systems and useless names. 
Good God! in what desert land have you lived, where no one was kind enough to 
inform you that these fancies, which you have so greedily imbibed, are a 
thousand years old, and as musty as they are ancient? I little expected, in 
this enlightened and scientific age, to find a disciple of Albertus Magnus and 
Paracelsus. My dear sir, you must begin your studies entirely anew."
So saying, he stepped aside, and wrote down a list of several books treating 
of natural philosophy, which he desired me to procure; and dismissed me, after 
mentioning that in the beginning of the following week he intended to commence 
a course of lectures upon natural philosophy in its general relations, and 
that M. Waldman, a fellow-professor, would lecture upon chemistry the 
alternate days that he omitted.
I returned home, not disappointed, for I have said that I had long considered 
those authors useless whom the professor reprobated; but I returned, not at 
all the more inclined to recur to these studies in any shape. M. Krempe was a 
little squat man, with a gruff voice and a repulsive countenance; the teacher, 
therefore, did not prepossess me in favour of his pursuits. In rather a too 
philosophical and connected a strain, perhaps, I have given an account of the 
conclusions I had come to concerning them in my early years. As a child, I had 
not been content with the results promised by the modern professors of natural 
science. With a confusion of ideas only to be accounted for by my extreme 
youth, and my want of a guide on such matters, I had retrod the steps of 
knowledge along the paths of time, and exchanged the discoveries of recent 
enquirers for the dreams of forgotten alchemists. Besides, I had a contempt 
for the uses of modern natural philosophy. It was very different, when the 
masters of the science sought immortality and power; such views, although 
futile, were grand: but now the scene was changed. The ambition of the 
enquirer seemed to limit itself to the annihilation of those visions on which 
my interest in science was chiefly founded. I was required to exchange 
chimeras of boundless grandeur for realities of little worth.
Such were my reflections during the first two or three days of my residence at 
Ingolstadt, which were chiefly spent in becoming acquainted with the 
localities, and the principal residents in my new abode. But as the ensuing 
week commenced, I thought of the information which M. Krempe had given me 
concerning the lectures. And although I could not consent to go and hear that 
little conceited fellow deliver sentences out of a pulpit, I recollected what 
he had said of M. Waldman, whom I had never seen, as he had hitherto been out 
of town.
Partly from curiosity, and partly from idleness, I went into the lecturing 
room, which M. Waldman entered shortly after. This professor was very unlike 
his colleague. He appeared about fifty years of age, but with an aspect 
expressive of the greatest benevolence; a few grey hairs covered his temples, 
but those at the back of his head were nearly black. His person was short, but 
remarkably erect; and his voice the sweetest I had ever heard. He began his 
lecture by a recapitulation of the history of chemistry, and the various 
improvements made by different men of learning, pronouncing with fervour the 
names of the most distinguished discoverers. He then took a cursory view of 
the present state of the science, and explained many of its elementary terms. 
After having made a few preparatory experiments, he concluded with a panegyric 
upon modern chemistry, the terms of which I shall never forget: -
"The ancient teachers of this science," said he, "promised impossibilities, 
and performed nothing. The modern masters promise very little; they know that 
metals cannot be transmuted, and that the elixir of life is a chimera. But 
these philosophers, whose hands seem only made to dabble in dirt, and their 
eyes to pore over the microscope or crucible, have indeed performed miracles. 
They penetrate into the recesses of nature, and show how she works in her 
hiding-places. They ascend into the heavens: they have discovered how the 
blood circulates, and the nature of the air we breathe. They have acquired new 
and almost unlimited powers; they can command the thunders of heaven, mimic 
the earthquake, and even mock the invisible world with its own shadows."
Such were the professor's words -rather let me say such the words of fate, 
enounced to destroy me. As he went on, I felt as if my soul were grappling 
with a palpable enemy; one by one the various keys were touched which formed 
the mechanism of my being: chord after chord was sounded, and soon my mind was 
filled with one thought, one conception, one purpose. So much has been done, 
exclaimed the soul of Frankenstein, -more, far more, will I achieve: treading 
in the steps already marked, I will pioneer a new way, explore unknown powers, 
and unfold to the world the deepest mysteries of creation.
I closed not my eyes that night. My internal being was in a state of 
insurrection and turmoil; I felt that order would thence arise, but I had no 
power to produce it. By degrees, after the morning's dawn, sleep came. I 
awoke, and my yesternight's thoughts were as a dream. There only remained a 
resolution to return to my ancient studies, and to devote myself to a science 
for which I believed myself to possess a natural talent. On the same day, I 
paid M. Waldman a visit. His manners in private were even more mild and 
attractive than in public; for there was a certain dignity in his mien during 
his lecture, which in his own house was replaced by the greatest affability 
and kindness. I gave him pretty nearly the same account of my former pursuits 
as I had given to his fellow-professor. He heard with attention the little 
narration concerning my studies, and smiled at the names of Cornelius Agrippa 
and Paracelsus, but without the contempt that M. Krempe had exhibited. He 
said, that "these were men to whose indefatigable zeal modern philosophers 
were indebted for most of the foundations of their knowledge. They had left to 
us, as an easier task, to give new names, and arrange in connected 
classifications, the facts which they in a great degree had been the 
instruments of bringing to light. The labours of men of genius, however 
erroneously directed, scarcely ever fail in ultimately turning to the solid 
advantage of mankind." I listened to his statement, which was delivered 
without any presumption or affectation and then added, that his lecture had 
removed my prejudices against modern chemists; I expressed myself in measured 
terms, with the modesty and deference due from a youth to his instructor, 
without letting escape (inexperience in life would have made me ashamed) any 
of the enthusiasm which stimulated my intended labours. I requested his advice 
concerning the books I ought to procure.
"I am happy," said M. Waldman, "to have gained a disciple; and if your 
application equals your ability, I have no doubt of your success. Chemistry is 
that branch of natural philosophy in which the greatest improvements have been 
and may be made; it is on that account that I have made it my peculiar study; 
but at the same time I have not neglected the other branches of science. A man 
would make but a very sorry chemist if he attended to that department of human 
knowledge alone. If your wish is to become really a man of science, and not 
merely a petty experimentalist, I should advise you to apply to every branch 
of natural philosophy, including mathematics."
He then took me into his laboratory, and explained to me the uses of his 
various machines; instructing me as to what I ought to procure, and promising 
me the use of his own when I should have advanced far enough in the science 
not to derange their mechanism. He also gave me the list of books which I had 
requested; and I took my leave.
Thus ended a day memorable to me: it decided my future destiny.


Chapter 4

From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the most 
comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation. I read with 
ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination, which modern 
enquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the lectures, and 
cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science of the university; and I 
found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense and real information, 
combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy and manners, but not on 
that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I found a true friend. His 
gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism; and his instructions were given with 
an air of frankness and good nature, that banished every idea of pedantry. In 
a thousand ways he smoothed for me the path of knowledge, and made the most 
abstruse enquiries clear and facile to my apprehension. My application was at 
first fluctuating and uncertain; it gained strength as I proceeded, and soon 
became so ardent and eager, that the stars often disappeared in the light of 
morning whilst I was yet engaged in my laboratory.
As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that my progress was 
rapid. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students, and my 
proficiency that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with a sly 
smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed the most 
heartfelt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this manner, during 
which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart and soul, in the 
pursuit of some discoveries, which I hoped to make. None but those who have 
experienced them can conceive of the enticements of science. In other studies 
you go as far as others have gone before you, and there is nothing more to 
know; but in a scientific pursuit there is continual food for discovery and 
wonder. A mind of moderate capacity, which closely pursues one study, must 
infallibly arrive at great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually 
sought the attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapt up in 
this, improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made some 
discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which procured me 
great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had arrived at this 
point, and had become as well acquainted with the theory and practice of 
natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of the professors at 
Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer conducive to my improvements, I 
thought of returning to my friends and my native town, when an incident 
happened that protracted my stay.
One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the 
structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life. 
Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was a bold 
question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery; yet with how 
many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted, if cowardice or 
carelessness did not restrain our enquiries. I revolved these circumstances in 
my mind, and determined thenceforth to apply myself more particularly to those 
branches of natural philosophy which relate to physiology. Unless I had been 
animated by an almost supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study 
would have been irksome, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of 
life, we must first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the 
science of anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the 
natural decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had 
taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no 
supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale of 
superstition, or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness had no 
effect upon my fancy; and a churchyard was to me merely the receptacle of 
bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of beauty and strength, 
had become food for the worm. Now I was led to examine the cause and progress 
of this decay, and forced to spend days and nights in vaults and 
charnel-houses. My attention was fixed upon every object the most 
insupportable to the delicacy of the human feelings. I saw how the fine form 
of man was degraded and wasted; I beheld the corruption of death succeed to 
the blooming cheek of life; I saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the 
eye and brain. I paused, examining and analysing all the minutiae of 
causation, as exemplified in the change from life to death, and death to life, 
until from the midst of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me -a light 
so brilliant and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the 
immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised, that among so 
many men of genius who had directed their enquiries towards the same science, 
that I alone should be reserved to discover so astonishing a secret.
Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not more 
certainly shine in the heavens, than that which I now affirm is true. Some 
miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the discovery were distinct 
and probable. After days and nights of incredible labour and fatigue, I 
succeeded in discovering the cause of generation and life; nay, more, I became 
myself capable of bestowing animation upon lifeless matter.
The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon gave 
place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful labour, to 
arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was the most gratifying 
consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great and overwhelming, 
that all the steps by which I had been progressively led to it were 
obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been the study and desire 
of the wiser men since the creation of the world was now within my grasp. Not 
that, like a magic scene, it all opened upon me at once: the information I had 
obtained was of a nature rather to direct my endeavours so soon as I should 
point them towards the object of my search, than to exhibit that object 
already accomplished. I was like the Arabian who had been buried with the 
dead, and found a passage to life, aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly 
ineffectual, light.
I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my 
friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am 
acquainted; that cannot be: listen patiently until the end of my story, and 
you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that subject. I will not lead 
you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruction and infallible 
misery. Learn from me, if not by my precepts, at least by my example, how 
dangerous is the acquirement of knowledge, and how much happier that man is 
who believes his native town to be the world, than he who aspires to become 
greater than his nature will allow.
When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated a long 
time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although I possessed 
the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame for the reception 
of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles, and veins, still remained 
a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour. I doubted at first whether I 
should attempt the creation of a being like myself, or one of simpler 
organization; but my imagination was too much exalted by my first success to 
permit me to doubt of my ability to give life to an animal as complex and 
wonderful as man. The materials at present within my command hardly appeared 
adequate to so arduous an undertaking; but I doubted not that I should 
ultimately succeed. I prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my 
operations might be incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect: 
yet, when I considered the improvement which every day takes place in science 
and mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least lay 
the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the magnitude and 
complexity of my plan as any argument of its impracticability. It was with 
these feelings that I began the creation of a human being. As the minuteness 
of the parts formed a great hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my 
first intention, to make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, 
about eight feet in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this 
determination, and having spent some months in successfully collecting and 
arranging my materials, I began.
No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like a 
hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared to me 
ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light 
into our dark world. A new species would bless me as its creator and source; 
many happy and excellent natures would owe their being to me. No father could 
claim the gratitude of his child so completely as I should deserve theirs. 
Pursuing these reflections, I thought, that if I could bestow animation upon 
lifeless matter, I might in process of time (although I now found it 
impossible) renew life where death had apparently devoted the body to 
corruption.
These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with 
unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person had 
become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of certainty, 
I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or the next hour 
might realise. One secret which I alone possessed was the hope to which I had 
dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight labours, while, with 
unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued nature to her hiding-places. Who 
shall conceive the horrors of my secret toil, as I dabbled among the 
unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured the living animal to animate the 
lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble, and my eyes swim with the remembrance; 
but then a resistless, and almost frantic, impulse, urged me forward; I seemed 
to have lost all soul or sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but 
a passing trance, that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, 
the unnatural stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I 
collected bones from charnel-houses; and disturbed, with profane fingers, the 
tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary chamber, or rather cell, 
at the top of the house, and separated from all the other apartments by a 
gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of filthy creation: my eyeballs were 
starting from their sockets in attending to the details of my employment. The 
dissecting room and the slaughterhouse furnished many of my materials; and 
often did my human nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still 
urged on by an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near 
to a conclusion.
The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in one 
pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow a more 
plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage: but my eyes 
were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings which made me 
neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget those friends who were 
so many miles absent, and whom I had not seen for so long a time. I knew my 
silence disquieted them; and I well remembered the words of my father: "I know 
that while you are pleased with yourself, you will think of us with affection, 
and we shall hear regularly from you. You must pardon me if I regard any 
interruption in your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are 
equally neglected."
I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings; but I could not tear 
my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which had taken an 
irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were, to procrastinate 
all that related to my feelings of affection until the great object, which 
swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be completed.
I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect to 
vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced that he was justified 
in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame. A human being 
in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful mind, and never to 
allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his tranquillity. I do not 
think that the pursuit of knowledge is an exception to this rule. If the study 
to which you apply yourself has a tendency to weaken your affections, and to 
destroy your taste for those simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly 
mix, then that study is certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the 
human mind. If this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit 
whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic affections, 
Greece had not been enslaved; Caesar would have spared his country; America 
would have been discovered more gradually; and the empires of Mexico and Peru 
had not been destroyed.
But I forget that I am moralising in the most interesting part of my tale; and 
your looks remind me to proceed.
My father made no reproach in his letters, and only took notice of my silence 
by enquiring into my occupations more particularly than before. Winter, 
spring, and summer passed away during my labours; but I did not watch the 
blossom or the expanding leaves -sights which before always yielded me supreme 
delight -so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation. The leaves of that year 
had withered before my work drew near to a close; and now every day showed me 
more plainly how well I had succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my 
anxiety, and I appeared rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the 
mines, or any other unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his 
favourite employment. Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I 
became nervous to a most painful degree; the fall of a leaf startled me, and I 
shunned my fellow-creatures as if I had been guilty of a crime. Sometimes I 
grew alarmed at the wreck I perceived that I had become; the energy of my 
purpose alone sustained me: my labours would soon end, and I believed that 
exercise and amusement would then drive away incipient disease; and I promised 
myself both of these when my creation should be complete.


Chapter 5

It was on a dreary night of November, that I beheld the accomplishment of my 
toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the 
instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the 
lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the 
rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, 
when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye 
of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its 
limbs.
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the 
wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His 
limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. 
Beautiful! -Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles 
and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth 
of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid 
contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the 
dun white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and 
straight black lips.
The different accidents of life are not so changeable as the feelings of human 
nature. I had worked hard for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of 
infusing life into an inanimate body. For this I had deprived myself of rest 
and health. I had desired it with an ardour that far exceeded moderation; but 
now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and breathless 
horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure the aspect of the being I 
had created, I rushed out of the room, and continued a long time traversing my 
bedchamber, unable to compose my mind to sleep. At length lassitude succeeded 
to the tumult I had before endured; and I threw myself on the bed in my 
clothes, endeavouring to seek a few moments of forgetfulness. But it was in 
vain: I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest dreams. I thought I 
saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets of Ingolstadt. 
Delighted and surprised, I embraced her; but as I imprinted the first kiss on 
her lips, they became livid with the hue of death; her features appeared to 
change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my dead mother in my arms; a 
shroud enveloped her form, and I saw the grave-worms crawling in the folds of 
the flannel. I started from my sleep with horror; a cold dew covered my 
forehead, my teeth chattered, and every limb became convulsed: when, by the 
dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the window 
shutters, I beheld the wretch -the miserable monster whom I had created. He 
held up the curtain of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they may be called, were 
fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while 
a grin wrinkled his cheeks. He might have spoken, but I did not hear; one hand 
was stretched out, seemingly to detain me, but I escaped, and rushed down 
stairs. I took refuge in the courtyard belonging to the house which I 
inhabited; where I remained during the rest of the night, walking up and down 
in the greatest agitation, listening attentively, catching and fearing each 
sound as if it were to announce the approach of the demoniacal corpse to which 
I had so miserably given life.
Oh! no mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again 
endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch. I had gazed on 
him while unfinished; he was ugly then; but when those muscles and joints were 
rendered capable of motion, it became a thing such as even Dante could not 
have conceived.
I passed the night wretchedly. Sometimes my pulse beat so quickly and hardly, 
that I felt the palpitation of every artery; at others, I nearly sank to the 
ground through languor and extreme weakness. Mingled with this horror, I felt 
the bitterness of disappointment; dreams that had been my food and pleasant 
rest for so long a space were now become a hell to me; and the change was so 
rapid, the overthrow so complete!
Morning, dismal and wet, at length dawned, and discovered to my sleepless and 
aching eyes the church of Ingolstadt, its white steeple and clock, which 
indicated the sixth hour. The porter opened the gates of the court, which had 
that night been my asylum, and I issued into the streets, pacing them with 
quick steps, as if I sought to avoid the wretch whom I feared every turning of 
the street would present to my view. I did not dare return to the apartment 
which I inhabited, but felt impelled to hurry on, although drenched by the 
rain which poured from a black and comfortless sky.
I continued walking in this manner for some time, endeavouring, by bodily 
exercise, to ease the load that weighed upon my mind. I traversed the streets, 
without any clear conception of where I was, or what I was doing. My heart 
palpitated in the sickness of fear; and I hurried on with irregular steps, not 
daring to look about me: -

"Like one who, on a lonely road,
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread."

Continuing thus, I came at length opposite to the inn at which the various 
diligences and carriages usually stopped. Here I paused, I knew not why; but I 
remained some minutes with my eyes fixed on a coach that was coming towards me 
from the other end of the street. As it drew nearer, I observed that it was 
the Swiss diligence: it stopped just where I was standing; and, on the door 
being opened, I perceived Henry Clerval, who, on seeing me, instantly sprung 
out. "My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed he, "how glad I am to see you! how 
fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!"
Nothing could equal my delight on seeing Clerval; his presence brought back to 
my thoughts my father, Elizabeth, and all those scenes of home so dear to my 
recollection. I grasped his hand, and in a moment forgot my horror and 
misfortune; I felt suddenly, and for the first time during many months, calm 
and serene joy. I welcomed my friend, therefore, in the most cordial manner, 
and we walked towards my college. Clerval continued talking for some time 
about our mutual friends, and his own good fortune in being permitted to come 
to Ingolstadt. "You may easily believe," said he, "how great was the 
difficulty to persuade my father that all necessary knowledge was not 
comprised in the noble art of book-keeping; and, indeed, I believe I left him 
incredulous to the last, for his constant answer to my unwearied entreaties 
was the same as that of the Dutch schoolmaster in the Vicar of Wakefield: -`I 
have ten thousand florins a year without Greek, I eat heartily without Greek.' 
But his affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning, and he 
has permitted me to undertake a voyage of discovery to the land of knowledge."
"It gives me the greatest delight to see you; but tell me how you left my 
father, brothers, and Elizabeth."
"Very well, and very happy, only a little uneasy that they hear from you so 
seldom. By the by, I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself. 
-But, my dear Frankenstein," continued he, stopping short, and gazing full in 
my face, "I did not before remark how very ill you appear; so thin and pale; 
you look as if you had been watching for several nights."
"You have guessed right; I have lately been so deeply engaged in one 
occupation, that I have not allowed myself sufficient rest, as you see: but I 
hope, I sincerely hope, that all these employments are now at an end, and that 
I am at length free."
I trembled excessively; I could not endure to think of, and far less to allude 
to, the occurrences of the preceding night. I walked with a quick pace, and we 
soon arrived at my college. I then reflected, and the thought made me shiver, 
that the creature whom I had left in my apartment might still be there, alive, 
and walking about. I dreaded to behold this monster; but I feared still more 
that Henry should see him. Entreating him, therefore, to remain a few minutes 
at the bottom of the stairs, I darted up towards my own room. My hand was 
already on the lock of the door before I recollected myself. I then paused; 
and a cold shivering came over me. I threw the door forcibly open, as children 
are accustomed to do when they expect a spectre to stand in waiting for them 
on the other side; but nothing appeared. I stepped fearfully in: the apartment 
was empty; and my bedroom was also freed from its hideous guest. I could 
hardly believe that so great a good fortune could have befallen me; but when I 
became assured that my enemy had indeed fled, I clapped my hands for joy, and 
ran down to Clerval.
We ascended into my room, and the servant presently brought breakfast; but I 
was unable to contain myself. It was not joy only that possessed me; I felt my 
flesh tingle with excess of sensitiveness, and my pulse beat rapidly. I was 
unable to remain for a single instant in the same place; I jumped over the 
chairs, clapped my hands, and laughed aloud. Clerval at first attributed my 
unusual spirits to joy on his arrival; but when he observed me more 
attentively, he saw a wildness in my eyes for which he could not account; and 
my loud, unrestrained, heartless laughter, frightened and astonished him.
"My dear Victor," cried he, "what, for God's sake, is the matter? Do not laugh 
in that manner. How ill you are! What is the cause of all this?"
"Do not ask me," cried I, putting my hands before my eyes, for I thought I saw 
the dreaded spectre glide into the room; "he can tell. -Oh, save me! save me!" 
I imagined that the monster seized me; I struggled furiously, and fell down in 
a fit.
Poor Clerval! what must have been his feelings? A meeting, which he 
anticipated with such joy, so strangely turned to bitterness. But I was not 
the witness of his grief; for I was lifeless, and did not recover my senses 
for a long, long time.
This was the commencement of a nervous fever, which confined me for several 
months. During all that time Henry was my only nurse. I afterwards learned 
that, knowing my father's advanced age, and unfitness for so long a journey, 
and how wretched my sickness would make Elizabeth, he spared them this grief 
by concealing the extent of my disorder. He knew that I could not have a more 
kind and attentive nurse than himself; and, firm in the hope he felt of my 
recovery, he did not doubt that, instead of doing harm, he performed the 
kindest action that he could towards them.
But I was in reality very ill; and surely nothing but the unbounded and 
unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life. The form 
of the monster on whom I had bestowed existence was for ever before my eyes, 
and I raved incessantly concerning him. Doubtless my words surprised Henry: he 
at first believed them to be the wanderings of my disturbed imagination; but 
the pertinacity with which I continually recurred to the same subject 
persuaded him that my disorder indeed owed its origin to some uncommon and 
terrible event.
By very slow degrees, and with frequent relapses, that alarmed and grieved my 
friend, I recovered. I remember the first time I became capable of observing 
outward objects with any kind of pleasure, I perceived that the fallen leaves 
had disappeared, and that the young buds were shooting forth from the trees 
that shaded my window. It was a divine spring; and the season contributed 
greatly to my convalescence. I felt also sentiments of joy and affection 
revive in my bosom; my gloom disappeared, and in a short time I became as 
cheerful as before I was attacked by the fatal passion.
"Dearest Clerval," exclaimed I, "how kind, how very good you are to me. This 
whole winter, instead of being spent in study, as you promised yourself, has 
been consumed in my sick room. How shall I ever repay you? I feel the greatest 
remorse for the disappointment of which I have been the occasion; but you will 
forgive me."
"You will repay me entirely, if you do not discompose yourself, but get well 
as fast as you can; and since you appear in such good spirits, I may speak to 
you on one subject, may I not?"
I trembled. One subject! what could it be? Could he allude to an object on 
whom I dared not even think?
"Compose yourself," said Clerval, who observed my change of colour, "I will 
not mention it, if it agitates you; but your father and cousin would be very 
happy if they received a letter from you in your own handwriting. They hardly 
know how ill you have been, and are uneasy at your long silence."
"Is that all, my dear Henry? How could you suppose that my first thought would 
not fly towards those dear, dear friends whom I love, and who are so deserving 
of my love."
"If this is your present temper, my friend, you will perhaps be glad to see a 
letter that has been lying here some days for you: it is from your cousin, I 
believe."


Chapter 6

Clerval then put the following letter into my hands. It was from my own 
Elizabeth: -
"My dearest Cousin, -You have been ill, very ill, and even the constant 
letters of dear kind Henry are not sufficient to reassure me on your account. 
You are forbidden to write -to hold a pen; yet one word from you, dear Victor, 
is necessary to calm our apprehensions. For a long time I have thought that 
each post would bring this line, and my persuasions have restrained my uncle 
from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. I have prevented his encountering 
the inconveniences and perhaps dangers of so long a journey; yet how often 
have I regretted not being able to perform it myself! I figure to myself that 
the task of attending on your sick bed has devolved on some mercenary old 
nurse, who could never guess your wishes, nor minister to them with the care 
and affection of your poor cousin. Yet that is over now: Clerval writes that 
indeed you are getting better. I eagerly hope that you will confirm this 
intelligence soon in your own handwriting.
"Get well -and return to us. You will find a happy, cheerful home, and friends 
who love you dearly. Your father's health is vigorous, and he asks but to see 
you, -but to be assured that you are well; and not a care will ever cloud his 
benevolent countenance. How pleased you would be to remark the improvement of 
our Ernest! He is now sixteen, and full of activity and spirit. He is desirous 
to be a true Swiss, and to enter into foreign service; but we cannot part with 
him, at least until his elder brother return to us. My uncle is not pleased 
with the idea of a military career in a distant country; but Ernest never had 
your powers of application. He looks upon study as an odious fetter; -his time 
is spent in the open air, climbing the hills or rowing on the lake. I fear 
that he will become an idler, unless we yield the point, and permit him to 
enter on the profession which he has selected.
"Little alteration, except the growth of our dear children, has taken place 
since you left us. The blue lake, and snow-clad mountains, they never change; 
-and I think our placid home, and our contented hearts are regulated by the 
same immutable laws. My trifling occupations take up my time and amuse me, and 
I am rewarded for any exertions by seeing none but happy, kind faces around 
me. Since you left us, but one change has taken place in our little household. 
Do you remember on what occasion Justine Moritz entered our family? Probably 
you do not; I will relate her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame 
Moritz, her mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the 
third. This girl had always been the favourite of her father; but, through a 
strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the death of 
M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and, when Justine was 
twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow her to live at our 
house. The republican institutions of our country have produced simpler and 
happier manners than those which prevail in the great monarchies that surround 
it. Hence there is less distinction between the several classes of its 
inhabitants; and the lower orders, being neither so poor nor so despised, 
their manners are more refined and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean 
the same thing as a servant in France and England. Justine, thus received in 
our family, learned the duties of a servant; a condition which, in our 
fortunate country, does not include the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of 
the dignity of a human being.
"Justine, you may remember, was a great favourite of yours; and I recollect 
you once remarked, that if you were in an ill-humour, one glance from Justine 
could dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto gives concerning the 
beauty of Angelica -she looked so frank-hearted and happy. My aunt conceived a 
great attachment for her, by which she was induced to give her an education 
superior to that which she had at first intended. This benefit was fully 
repaid; Justine was the most grateful little creature in the world: I do not 
mean that she made any professions; I never heard one pass her lips; but you 
could see by her eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her 
disposition was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the 
greatest attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of 
all excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so 
that even now she often reminds me of her.
"When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own grief 
to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness with the most 
anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other trials were reserved 
for her.
"One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the exception 
of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience of the woman was 
troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her favourites was a judgment 
from heaven to chastise her partiality. She was a Roman Catholic; and I 
believe her confessor confirmed the idea which she had conceived. Accordingly, 
a few months after your departure for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by 
her repentant mother. Poor girl! she wept when she quitted our house; she was 
much altered since the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a 
winning mildness to her manners, which had before been remarkable for 
vivacity. Nor was her residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore 
her gaiety. The poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She 
sometimes begged Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused 
her of having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting 
at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased her 
irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the first approach 
of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter. Justine has returned to 
us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is very clever and gentle, and 
extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her mien and her expressions 
continually remind me of my dear aunt.
"I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling 
William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with sweet 
laughing blue eyes, dark eyelashes, and curling hair. When he smiles, two 
little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with health. He has 
already had one or two little wives, but Louisa Biron is his favourite, a 
pretty little girl of five years of age.
"Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip 
concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has already 
received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage with a young 
Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon, married M. Duvillard, 
the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has 
suffered several misfortunes since the departure of Clerval from Geneva. But 
he has already recovered his spirits, and is reported to be on the point of 
marrying a very lively pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, 
and much older than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with 
everybody.
"I have written myself into better spirits, dear cousin; but my anxiety 
returns upon me as I conclude. Write, dearest Victor, -one line -one word will 
be a blessing to us. Ten thousand thanks to Henry for his kindness, his 
affection, and his many letters: we are sincerely grateful. Adieu! my cousin; 
take care of your self; and, I entreat you, write!
ELIZABETH LAVENZA.
Geneva, March 18th, 17--."

"Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed, when I had read her letter: "I will write 
instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel." I wrote, and 
this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had commenced, and 
proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to leave my chamber.
One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the several 
professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind of rough 
usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained. Ever since the 
fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of my misfortunes, I had 
conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of natural philosophy. When I 
was otherwise quite restored to health, the sight of a chemical instrument 
would renew all the agony of my nervous symptoms. Henry saw this, and had 
removed all my apparatus from my view. He had also changed my apartment; for 
he perceived that I had acquired a dislike for the room which had previously 
been my laboratory. But these cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I 
visited the professors. M. Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with 
kindness and warmth, the astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He 
soon perceived that I disliked the subject; but not guessing the real cause, 
he attributed my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my 
improvement, to the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of 
drawing me out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I 
felt as if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments 
which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel death. I 
writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt. Clerval, whose 
eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the sensations of others, 
declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his total ignorance; and the 
conversation took a more general turn. I thanked my friend from my heart, but 
I did not speak. I saw plainly that he was surprised, but he never attempted 
to draw my secret from me; and although I loved him with a mixture of 
affection and reverence that knew no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself 
to confide to him that event which was so often present to my recollection, 
but which I feared the detail to another would only impress more deeply.
M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of almost 
insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me even more pain 
than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. "D-n the fellow!" cried he; 
"why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstripped us all. Ay, stare if you 
please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster who, but a few years ago, 
believed in Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as in the gospel, has now set himself 
at the head of the university; and if he is not soon pulled down, we shall all 
be out of countenance. -Ay, ay," continued he, observing my face expressive of 
suffering, "M. Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. 
Young men should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval: I was 
myself when young; but that wears out in a very short time."
M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned the 
conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.
Clerval had never sympathized in my tastes for natural science; and his 
literary pursuits differed wholly from those which had occupied me. He came to 
the university with the design of making himself complete master of the 
oriental languages, as thus he should open a field for the plan of life he had 
marked out for himself. Resolved to pursue no inglorious career, he turned his 
eyes toward the East, as affording scope for his spirit of enterprise. The 
Persian, Arabic, and Sanskrit languages engaged his attention, and I was 
easily induced to enter on the same studies. Idleness had ever been irksome to 
me, and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former studies, 
I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend, and found not 
only instruction but consolation in the works of the orientalists. I did not, 
like him, attempt a critical knowledge of their dialects, for I did not 
contemplate making any other use of them than temporary amusement. I read 
merely to understand their meaning, and they well repaid my labours. Their 
melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating, to a degree I never 
experienced in studying the authors of any other country. When you read their 
writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and a garden of roses, -in the 
smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire that consumes your own heart. 
How different from the manly and heroical poetry of Greece and Rome!
Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was fixed for 
the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several accidents, winter and 
snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable, and my journey was retarded 
until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay very bitterly; for I longed to see 
my native town and my beloved friends. My return had only been delayed so 
long, from an unwillingness to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had 
become acquainted with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent 
cheerfully; and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came its 
beauty compensated for its dilatoriness.
The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily which 
was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a pedestrian tour in 
the environs of Ingolstadt, that I might bid a personal farewell to the 
country I had so long inhabited. I acceded with pleasure to this proposition: 
I was fond of exercise, and Clerval had always been my favourite companion in 
the rambles of this nature that I had taken among the scenes of my native 
country.
We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had long 
been restored, and they gained additional strength from the salubrious air I 
breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and the conversation of my 
friend. Study had before secluded me from the intercourse of my 
fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but Clerval called forth the 
better feelings of my heart; he again taught me to love the aspect of nature, 
and the cheerful faces of children. Excellent friend! how sincerely did you 
love me, and endeavour to elevate my mind until it was on a level with your 
own! A selfish pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and 
affection warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a 
few years ago, loved and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy, 
inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful 
sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstasy. The 
present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the hedges, 
while those of summer were already in bud. I was undisturbed by thoughts which 
during the preceding year had pressed upon me, notwithstanding my endeavours 
to throw them off, with an invincible burden.
Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathised in my feelings: he 
exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that filled his 
soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly astonishing: his 
conversation was full of imagination; and very often, in imitation of the 
Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of wonderful fancy and passion. 
At other times he repeated my favourite poems, or drew me out into arguments, 
which he supported with great ingenuity.
We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were dancing, 
and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits were high, and I 
bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and hilarity.


Chapter 7

On my return, I found the following letter from my father: -
"My dear Victor, -You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the 
date of your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few 
lines, merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But that would 
be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise, my 
son, when you expected a happy and glad welcome, to behold, on the contrary, 
tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our misfortune? Absence 
cannot have rendered you callous to our joys and griefs; and how shall I 
inflict pain on my long absent son? I wish to prepare you for the woful news, 
but I know it is impossible; even now your eye skims over the page, to seek 
the words which are to convey to you the horrible tidings.
"William is dead! -that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed my 
heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered!
"I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the circumstances 
of the transaction.
"Last Thursday (May 7th), I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to walk in 
Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged our walk 
farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of returning; and 
then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone on before, were not 
to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until they should return. 
Presently Ernest came, and enquired if we had seen his brother: he said, that 
he had been playing with him, that William had run away to hide himself, and 
that he vainly sought for him, and afterwards waited for him a long time, but 
that he did not return.
"This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him until 
night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have returned to the 
house. He was not there. We returned again, with torches; for I could not 
rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and was exposed to 
all the damps and dews of night; Elizabeth also suffered extreme anguish. 
About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy, whom the night before I 
had seen blooming and active in health, stretched on the grass livid and 
motionless: the print of the murderer's finger was on his neck.
"He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my countenance 
betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to see the corpse. At 
first I attempted to prevent her; but she persisted, and entering the room 
where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the victim, and clasping her hands 
exclaimed, `O God! I have murdered my darling child!'
"She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again lived, 
it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same evening William had 
teased her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that she possessed of 
your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless the temptation which 
urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace of him at present, although 
our exertions to discover him are unremitted; but they will not restore my 
beloved William!
"Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps continually, 
and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death; her words pierce my 
heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be an additional motive for you, 
my son, to return and be our comforter? Your dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now 
say, Thank God she did not live to witness the cruel, miserable death of her 
youngest darling!
"Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin, but 
with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of festering, 
the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my friend, but with 
kindness and affection for those who love you, and not with hatred for your 
enemies. -Your affectionate and afflicted father,
ALPHONSE FRANKENSTEIN.
Geneva, May 12th, 17--."

Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was surprised 
to observe the despair that succeeded to the joy I at first expressed on 
receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on the table, and covered 
my face with my hands.
"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with 
bitterness, "are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has happened?"
I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the room 
in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of Clerval, as he 
read the account of my misfortune.
"I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he; "your disaster is 
irreparable. What do you intend to do?"
"To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses."
During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to say a few words of consolation; he 
could only express his heartfelt sympathy. "Poor William!" said he, "dear 
lovely child, he now sleeps with his angel mother! Who that had seen him 
bright and joyous in his young beauty, but must weep over his untimely loss! 
To die so miserably; to feel the murderer's grasp! How much more a murderer, 
that could destroy such radiant innocence! Poor little fellow! one only 
consolation have we; his friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest. The pang 
is over, his sufferings are at an end for ever. A sod covers his gentle form, 
and he knows no pain. He can no longer be a subject for pity; we must reserve 
that for his miserable survivors."
Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words impressed 
themselves on my mind, and I remembered them afterwards in solitude. But now, 
as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a cabriolet, and bade farewell 
to my friend.
My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I longed to 
console and sympathise with my loved and sorrowing friends; but when I drew 
near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could hardly sustain the 
multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I passed through scenes 
familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for nearly six years. How 
altered every thing might be during that time! One sudden and desolating 
change had taken place; but a thousand little circumstances might have by 
degrees worked other alterations, which, although they were done more 
tranquilly, might not be the less decisive. Fear overcame me; I dared not 
advance, dreading a thousand nameless evils that made me tremble, although I 
was unable to define them.
I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I contemplated 
the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm; and the snowy 
mountains, "the palaces of nature," were not changed. By degrees the calm and 
heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my journey towards Geneva.
The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I approached my 
native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sides of Jura, and the 
bright summit of Mont Blanc. I wept like a child. "Dear mountains! my own 
beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your summits are clear; the 
sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to prognosticate peace, or to mock 
at my unhappiness?"
I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on these 
preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative happiness, and I 
think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved country! who but a native 
can tell the delight I took in again beholding thy streams, thy mountains, 
and, more than all, thy lovely lake!
Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also 
closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt still 
more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil, and I 
foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched of human 
beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single circumstance, 
that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not conceive the 
hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.
It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the gates of 
the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night at Secheron, a 
village at the distance of half a league from the city. The sky was serene; 
and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot where my poor 
William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the town, I was obliged 
to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at Plainpalais. During this short voyage 
I saw the lightnings playing on the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful 
figures. The storm appeared to approach rapidly,; and, on landing, I ascended 
a low hill, that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were 
clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its 
violence quickly increased.
I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm increased 
every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash over my head. It was 
echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and the Alps of Savoy; vivid flashes of 
lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the lake, making it appear like a vast 
sheet of fire; then for an instant every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, 
until the eye recovered itself from the preceding flash. The storm, as is 
often the case in Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the 
heavens. The most violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over that part 
of the lake which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of 
Copet. Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened 
and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the lake.
While I watched the tempest, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with a 
hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped my hands, 
and exclaimed aloud, "William, dear angel! this is thy funeral, this thy 
dirge!" As I said these words, I perceived in the gloom a figure which stole 
from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood fixed, gazing intently: I could 
not be mistaken. A flash of lightning illuminated the object, and discovered 
its shape plainly to me; its gigantic stature, and the deformity of its 
aspect, more hideous than belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it 
was the wretch, the filthy daemon, to whom I had given life. What did he 
there? Could he be (I shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? 
No sooner did that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its 
truth; my teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for 
support. The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in 
human shape could have destroyed that fair child. He was the murderer! I could 
not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible proof of the 
fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have been in vain, for 
another flash discovered him to me hanging among the rocks of the nearly 
perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, a hill that bounds Plainpalais on the 
south. He soon reached the summit, and disappeared.
I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued, and 
the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I revolved in my mind the 
events which I had until now sought to forget: the whole train of my progress 
towards the creation; the appearance of the work of my own hands alive at my 
bedside; its departure. Two years had now nearly elapsed since the night on 
which he first received life; and was this his first crime? Alas! I had turned 
loose into the world a depraved wretch, whose delight was in carnage and 
misery; had he not murdered my brother?
No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the night, 
which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel the 
inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes of evil and 
despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind, and endowed 
with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such as the deed which 
he had now done, nearly in the light of my own vampire, my own spirit let 
loose from the grave, and forced to destroy all that was dear to me.
Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were open, and 
I hastened to my father's house. My first thought was to discover what I knew 
of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be made. But I paused when I 
reflected on the story that I had to tell. A being whom I myself had formed, 
and endued with life, had met me at midnight among the precipices of an 
inaccessible mountain. I remembered also the nervous fever with which I had 
been seized just at the time that I dated my creation, and which would give an 
air of delirium to a tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if 
any other had communicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it 
as the ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would 
elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my relatives 
to commence it. And then of what use would be pursuit? Who could arrest a 
creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont Saleve? These 
reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain silent.
It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house. I told the 
servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library to attend their 
usual hour of rising.
Six years had elapsed, passed as a dream but for one indelible trace, and I 
stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before my 
departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and venerable parent! He still remained to 
me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over the mantelpiece. It 
was an historical subject, painted at my father's desire, and represented 
Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair, kneeling by the coffin of her dead 
father. Her garb was rustic, and her cheek pale; but there was an air of 
dignity and beauty, that hardly permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this 
picture was a miniature of William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. 
While I was thus engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened 
to welcome me. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me: "Welcome, my 
dearest Victor," said he. "Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and then 
you would have found us all joyous and delighted. You come to us now to share 
a misery which nothing can alleviate; yet your presence will, I hope, revive 
our father, who seems sinking under his misfortune; and your persuasions will 
induce poor Elizabeth to cease her vain and tormenting self-accusations. -Poor 
William! he was our darling and our pride!"
Tears, unrestrained, fell from my brother's eyes; a sense of mortal agony 
crept over my frame. Before, I had only imagined the wretchedness of my 
desolated home; the reality came on me as a new, and a not less terrible, 
disaster. I tried to calm Ernest; I enquired more minutely concerning my 
father, and her I named my cousin.
"She most of all," said Ernest, "requires consolation; she accused herself of 
having caused the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But 
since the murderer has been discovered -"
"The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt to 
pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the winds, or 
confine a mountain-stream with a straw. I saw him too; he was free last night!"
"I do not know what you mean," replied my brother, in accents of wonder, "but 
to us the discovery we have made completes our misery. No one would believe it 
at first; and even now Elizabeth will not be convinced, notwithstanding all 
the evidence. Indeed, who would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so 
amiable, and fond of all the family, could suddenly become capable of so 
frightful, so appalling a crime?"
"Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is wrongfully; 
every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?"
"No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have almost 
forced conviction upon us; and her own behaviour has been so confused, as to 
add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear, leaves no hope for doubt. 
But she will be tried today, and you will then hear all."
He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had been 
discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed for several 
days. During this interval, one of the servants, happening to examine the 
apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her pocket 
the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the temptation of the 
murderer. The servant instantly showed it to one of the others, who, without 
saying a word to any of the family, went to a magistrate; and, upon their 
deposition, Justine was apprehended. On being charged with the fact, the poor 
girl confirmed the suspicion in a great measure by her extreme confusion of 
manner.
This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied 
earnestly, "You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor, good 
Justine, is innocent."
At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on his 
countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after we had 
exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other topic than 
that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, "Good God, papa! Victor says 
that he knows who was the murderer of poor William."
"We do also, unfortunately," replied my father; "for indeed I had rather have 
been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and ingratitude 
in one I valued so highly."
"My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent."
"If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be tried 
today, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted."
This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that Justine, and 
indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I had no fear, 
therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be brought forward strong 
enough to convict her. My tale was not one to announce publicly; its 
astounding horror would be looked upon as madness by the vulgar. Did any one 
indeed exist, except I, the creator, who would believe, unless his senses 
convinced him, in the existence of the living monument of presumption and rash 
ignorance which I had let loose upon the world?
We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had altered her since I last beheld 
her; it had endowed her with loveliness surpassing the beauty of her childish 
years. There was the same candour, the same vivacity, but it was allied to an 
expression more full of sensibility and intellect. She welcomed me with the 
greatest affection. "Your arrival, my dear cousin," said she, "fills me with 
hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless Justine. 
Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her innocence as 
certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly hard to us; we have 
not only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor girl, whom I sincerely 
love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If she is condemned, I never 
shall know joy more. But she will not, I am sure she will not; and then I 
shall be happy again, even after the sad death of my little William."
"She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be proved; fear 
nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her acquittal."
"How kind and generous you are! every one else believes in her guilt, and that 
made me wretched, for I knew that it was impossible: and to see every one else 
prejudiced in so deadly a manner rendered me hopeless and despairing." She wept.
"Dearest niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is, as you believe, 
innocent, rely on the justice of our laws, and the activity with which I shall 
prevent the slightest shadow of partiality."


Chapter 8

We passed a few sad hours, until eleven o'clock, when the trial was to 
commence. My father and the rest of the family being obliged to attend as 
witnesses, I accompanied them to the court. During the whole of this wretched 
mockery of justice I suffered living torture. It was to be decided, whether 
the result of my curiosity and lawless devices would cause the death of two of 
my fellow-beings: one a smiling babe, full of innocence and joy; the other far 
more dreadfully murdered, with every aggravation of infamy that could make the 
murder memorable in horror. Justine also was a girl of merit, and possessed 
qualities which promised to render her life happy: now all was to be 
obliterated in an ignominious grave; and I the cause! A thousand times rather 
would I have confessed myself guilty of the crime ascribed to Justine; but I 
was absent when it was committed, and such a declaration would have been 
considered as the ravings of a madman, and would not have exculpated her who 
suffered through me.
The appearance of Justine was calm. She was dressed in mourning; and her 
countenance, always engaging, was rendered, by the solemnity of her feelings, 
exquisitely beautiful. Yet she appeared confident in innocence, and did not 
tremble, although gazed on and execrated by thousands; for all the kindness 
which her beauty might otherwise have excited, was obliterated in the minds of 
the spectators by the imagination of the enormity she was supposed to have 
committed. She was tranquil, yet her tranquillity was evidently constrained; 
and as her confusion had before been adduced as a proof of her guilt, she 
worked up her mind to an appearance of courage. When she entered the court, 
she threw her eyes round it, and quickly discovered where we were seated. A 
tear seemed to dim her eye when she saw us; but she quickly recovered herself, 
and a look of sorrowful affection seemed to attest her utter guiltlessness.
The trial began; and, after the advocate against her had stated the charge, 
several witnesses were called. Several strange facts combined against her, 
which might have staggered any one who had not such proof of her innocence as 
I had. She had been out the whole of the night on which the murder had been 
committed, and towards morning had been perceived by a market-woman not far 
from the spot where the body of the murdered child had been afterwards found. 
The woman asked her what she did there; but she looked very strangely, and 
only returned a confused and unintelligible answer. She returned to the house 
about eight o'clock; and, when one enquired where she had passed the night, 
she replied that she had been looking for the child, and demanded earnestly if 
any thing had been heard concerning him. When shown the body, she fell into 
violent hysterics, and kept her bed for several days. The picture was then 
produced, which the servant had found in her pocket; and when Elizabeth, in a 
faltering voice, proved that it was the same which, an hour before the child 
had been missed, she had placed round his neck, a murmur of horror and 
indignation filled the court.
Justine was called on for her defence. As the trial had proceeded, her 
countenance had altered. Surprise, horror, and misery were strongly expressed. 
Sometimes she struggled with her tears; but, when she was desired to plead, 
she collected her powers, and spoke, in an audible although variable voice.
"God knows," she said, "how entirely I am innocent. But I do not pretend that 
my protestations should acquit me: I rest my innocence on a plain and simple 
explanation of the facts which have been adduced against me; and I hope the 
character I have always borne will incline my judges to a favourable 
interpretation, where any circumstance appears doubtful or suspicious."
She then related that, by the permission of Elizabeth, she had passed the 
evening of the night on which the murder had been committed at the house of an 
aunt at Chene, a village situated at about a league from Geneva. On her 
return, at about nine o'clock, she met a man, who asked her if she had seen 
any thing of the child who was lost. She was alarmed by this account, and 
passed several hours in looking for him, when the gates of Geneva were shut, 
and she was forced to remain several hours of the night in a barn belonging to 
a cottage, being unwilling to call up the inhabitants, to whom she was well 
known. Most of the night she spent here watching; towards morning she believed 
that she slept for a few minutes; some steps disturbed her, and she awoke. It 
was dawn, and she quitted her asylum, that she might again endeavour to find 
my brother. If she had gone near the spot where his body lay, it was without 
her knowledge. That she had been bewildered when questioned by the 
market-woman was not surprising, since she had passed a sleepless night, and 
the fate of poor William was yet uncertain. Concerning the picture she could 
give no account.
"I know," continued the unhappy victim, "how heavily and fatally this one 
circumstance weighs against me, but I have no power of explaining it; and when 
I have expressed my utter ignorance, I am only left to conjecture concerning 
the probabilities by which it might have been placed in my pocket. But here 
also I am checked. I believe that I have no enemy on earth and none surely 
would have been so wicked as to destroy me wantonly. Did the murderer place it 
there? I know of no opportunity afforded him for so doing; or, if I had, why 
should he have stolen the jewel, to part with it again so soon?
"I commit my cause to the justice of my judges, yet I see no room for hope. I 
beg permission to have a few witnesses examined concerning my character; and 
if their testimony shall not overweigh my supposed guilt, I must be condemned, 
although I would pledge my salvation on my innocence."
Several witnesses were called, who had known her for many years, and they 
spoke well of her; but fear, and hatred of the crime of which they supposed 
her guilty, rendered them timorous, and unwilling to come forward. Elizabeth 
saw even this last resource, her excellent dispositions and irreproachable 
conduct, about to fail the accused, when, although violently agitated, she 
desired permission to address the court.
"I am," said she, "the cousin of the unhappy child who was murdered, or rather 
his sister, for I was educated by and have lived with his parents ever since 
and even long before his birth. It may therefore be judged indecent in me to 
come forward on this occasion; but when I see a fellow-creature about to 
perish through the cowardice of her pretended friends, I wish to be allowed to 
speak, that I may say what I know of her character. I am well acquainted with 
the accused. I have lived in the same house with her, at one time for five, 
and at another for nearly two years. During all that period she appeared to me 
the most amiable and benevolent of human creatures. She nursed Madame 
Frankenstein, my aunt, in her last illness, with the greatest affection and 
care; and afterwards attended her own mother during a tedious illness, in a 
manner that excited the admiration of all who knew her; after which she again 
lived in my uncle's house, where she was beloved by all the family. She was 
warmly attached to the child who is now dead, and acted towards him like a 
most affectionate mother. For my own part, I do not hesitate to say, that, 
notwithstanding all the evidence produced against her, I believe and rely on 
her perfect innocence. She had no temptation for such an action: as to the 
bauble on which the chief proof rests, if she had earnestly desired it, I 
should have willingly given it to her; so much do I esteem and value her."
A murmur of approbation followed Elizabeth's simple and powerful appeal; but 
it was excited by her generous interference, and not in favour of poor 
Justine, on whom the public indignation was turned with renewed violence, 
charging her with the blackest ingratitude. She herself wept as Elizabeth 
spoke, but she did not answer. My own agitation and anguish was extreme during 
the whole trial. I believed in her innocence; I knew it. Could the daemon, who 
had (I did not for a minute doubt) murdered my brother, also in his hellish 
sport have betrayed the innocent to death and ignominy? I could not sustain 
the horror of my situation; and when I perceived that the popular voice, and 
the countenances of the judges, had already condemned my unhappy victim, I 
rushed out of the court in agony. The tortures of the accused did not equal 
mine; she was sustained by innocence, but the fangs of remorse tore my bosom, 
and would not forego their hold.
I passed a night of unmingled wretchedness. In the morning I went to the 
court; my lips and throat were parched. I dared not ask the fatal question; 
but I was known, and the officer guessed the cause of my visit. The ballots 
had been thrown; they were all black, and Justine was condemned.
I cannot pretend to describe what I then felt. I had before experienced 
sensations of horror; and I have endeavoured to bestow upon them adequate 
expressions, but words cannot convey an idea of the heart-sickening despair 
that I then endured. The person to whom I addressed myself added, that Justine 
had already confessed her guilt. "That evidence," he observed, "was hardly 
required in so glaring a case, but I am glad of it; and, indeed, none of our 
judges like to condemn a criminal upon circumstantial evidence, be it ever so 
decisive."
This was strange and unexpected intelligence; what could it mean? Had my eyes 
deceived me? and was I really as mad as the whole world would believe me to 
be, if I disclosed the object of my suspicions? I hastened to return home, and 
Elizabeth eagerly demanded the result.
"My cousin," replied I, "it is decided as you may have expected; all judges 
had rather that ten innocent should suffer, than that one guilty should 
escape. But she has confessed."
This was a dire blow to poor Elizabeth, who had relied with firmness upon 
Justine's innocence. "Alas!" said she, "how shall I ever again believe in 
human goodness? Justine, whom I loved and esteemed as my sister, how could she 
put on these smiles of innocence only to betray? her mild eyes seemed 
incapable of any severity or guile, and yet she has committed a murder."
Soon after we heard that the poor victim had expressed a desire to see my 
cousin. My father wished her not to go; but said, that he left it to her own 
judgment and feelings to decide. "Yes," said Elizabeth, "I will go, although 
she is guilty; and you, Victor, shall accompany me: I cannot go alone." The 
idea of this visit was torture to me, yet I could not refuse.
We entered the gloomy prison-chamber, and beheld Justine sitting on some straw 
at the farther end; her hands were manacled, and her head rested on her knees. 
She rose on seeing us enter; and when we were left alone with her, she threw 
herself at the feet of Elizabeth, weeping bitterly. My cousin wept also.
"Oh, Justine!" said she, "why did you rob me of my last consolation? I relied 
on your innocence; and although I was then very wretched, I was not so 
miserable as I am now."
"And do you also believe that I am so very, very wicked? Do you also join with 
my enemies to crush me, to condemn me as a murderer?" Her voice was suffocated 
with sobs.
"Rise, my poor girl," said Elizabeth, "why do you kneel, if you are innocent? 
I am not one of your enemies; I believed you guiltless, notwithstanding every 
evidence, until I heard that you had yourself declared your guilt. That 
report, you say, is false; and be assured, dear Justine, that nothing can 
shake my confidence in you for a moment, but your own confession."
"I did confess; but I confessed a lie. I confessed, that I might obtain 
absolution; but now that falsehood lies heavier at my heart than all my other 
sins. The God of heaven forgive me! Ever since I was condemned, my confessor 
has besieged me; he threatened and menaced, until I almost began to think that 
I was the monster that he said I was. He threatened excommunication and hell 
fire in my last moments, if I continued obdurate. Dear lady, I had none to 
support me; all looked on me as a wretch doomed to ignominy and perdition. 
What could I do? In an evil hour I subscribed to a lie; and now only am I 
truly miserable."
She paused, weeping, and then continued -"I thought with horror, my sweet 
lady, that you should believe your Justine, whom your blessed aunt had so 
highly honoured, and whom you loved, was a creature capable of a crime which 
none but the devil himself could have perpetrated. Dear William! dearest 
blessed child! I soon shall see you again in heaven, where we shall all be 
happy; and that consoles me, going as I am to suffer ignominy and death."
"Oh, Justine! forgive me for having for one moment distrusted you. Why did you 
confess? But do not mourn, dear girl. Do not fear. I will proclaim, I will 
prove your innocence. I will melt the stony hearts of your enemies by my tears 
and prayers. You shall not die! -You, my playfellow, my companion, my sister, 
perish on the scaffold! No! no! I never could survive so horrible a misfortune."
Justine shook her head mournfully. "I do not fear to die," she said; "that 
pang is past. God raises my weakness, and gives me courage to endure the 
worst. I leave a sad and bitter world; and if you remember me, and think of me 
as of one unjustly condemned, I am resigned to the fate awaiting me. Learn 
from me, dear lady, to submit in patience to the will of Heaven!"
During this conversation I had retired to a corner of the prison-room, where I 
could conceal the horrid anguish that possessed me. Despair! Who dared talk of 
that? The poor victim, who on the morrow was to pass the awful boundary 
between life and death, felt not as I did, such deep and bitter agony. I 
gnashed my teeth, and ground them together, uttering a groan that came from my 
inmost soul. Justine started. When she saw who it was, she approached me, and 
said, "Dear sir, you are very kind to visit me; you, I hope, do not believe 
that I am guilty?"
I could not answer. "No, Justine," said Elizabeth; "he is more convinced of 
your innocence than I was; for even when he heard that you had confessed, he 
did not credit it."
"I truly thank him. In these last moments I feel the sincerest gratitude 
towards those who think of me with kindness. How sweet is the affection of 
others to such a wretch as I am! It removes more than half my misfortune; and 
I feel as if I could die in peace, now that my innocence is acknowledged by 
you, dear lady, and your cousin."
Thus the poor sufferer tried to comfort others and herself. She indeed gained 
the resignation she desired. But I, the true murderer, felt the never-dying 
worm alive in my bosom, which allowed of no hope or consolation. Elizabeth 
also wept, and was unhappy; but hers also was the misery of innocence, which, 
like a cloud that passes over the fair moon, for a while hides but cannot 
tarnish its brightness. Anguish and despair had penetrated into the core of my 
heart; I bore a hell within me, which nothing could extinguish. We stayed 
several hours with Justine; and it was with great difficulty that Elizabeth 
could tear herself away. "I wish," cried she, "that I were to die with you; I 
cannot live in this world of misery."
Justine assumed an air of cheerfulness, while she with difficulty repressed 
her bitter tears. She embraced Elizabeth, and said, in a voice of 
half-suppressed emotion, "Farewell, sweet lady, dearest Elizabeth, my beloved 
and only friend; may Heaven, in its bounty, bless and preserve you; may this 
be the last misfortune that you will ever suffer! Live, and be happy, and make 
others so."
And on the morrow Justine died. Elizabeth's heart-rending eloquence failed to 
move the judges from their settled conviction in the criminality of the 
saintly sufferer. My passionate and indignant appeals were lost upon them. And 
when I received their cold answers, and heard the harsh unfeeling reasoning of 
these men, my purposed avowal died away on my lips. Thus I might proclaim 
myself a madman, but not revoke the sentence passed upon my wretched victim. 
She perished on the scaffold as a murderess!
From the tortures of my own heart, I turned to contemplate the deep and 
voiceless grief of my Elizabeth. This also was my doing! And my father's woe, 
and the desolation of that late so smiling home -all was the work of my 
thrice-accursed hands! Ye weep, unhappy ones; but these are not your last 
tears! Again shall you raise the funeral wail, and the sound of your 
lamentations shall again and again be heard! Frankenstein, your son, your 
kinsman, your early, much-loved friend; he who would spend each vital drop of 
blood for your sakes -who has no thought nor sense of joy, except as it is 
mirrored also in your dear countenances -who would fill the air with 
blessings, and spend his life in serving you -he bids you weep -to shed 
countless tears; happy beyond his hopes, if thus inexorable fate be satisfied, 
and if the destruction pause before the peace of the grave have succeeded to 
your sad torments!
Thus spoke my prophetic soul, as, torn by remorse, horror, and despair, I 
beheld those I loved spend vain sorrow upon the graves of William and Justine, 
the first hapless victims to my unhallowed arts.


Chapter 9

Nothing is more painful to the human mind, than, after the feelings have been 
worked up by a quick succession of events, the dead calmness of inaction and 
certainty which follows, and deprives the soul both of hope and fear. Justine 
died; she rested; and I was alive. The blood flowed freely in my veins, but a 
weight of despair and remorse pressed on my heart, which nothing could remove. 
Sleep fled from my eyes; I wandered like an evil spirit, for I had committed 
deeds of mischief beyond description horrible, and more, much more (I 
persuaded myself ), was yet behind. Yet my heart overflowed with kindness, and 
the love of virtue. I had begun life with benevolent intentions, and thirsted 
for the moment when I should put them in practice, and make myself useful to 
my fellow-beings. Now all was blasted: instead of that serenity of conscience, 
which allowed me to look back upon the past with self-satisfaction, and from 
thence to gather promise of new hopes, I was seized by remorse and the sense 
of guilt, which hurried me away to a hell of intense tortures, such as no 
language can describe.
This state of mind preyed upon my health, which had perhaps never entirely 
recovered from the first shock it had sustained. I shunned the face of man; 
all sound of joy or complacency was torture to me; solitude was my only 
consolation -deep, dark, deathlike solitude.
My father observed with pain the alteration perceptible in my disposition and 
habits, and endeavoured by arguments deduced from the feelings of his serene 
conscience and guiltless life, to inspire me with fortitude, and awaken in me 
the courage to dispel the dark cloud which brooded over me. "Do you think, 
Victor," said he, "that I do not suffer also? No one could love a child more 
than I loved your brother;" (tears came into his eyes as he spoke;) "but is it 
not a duty to the survivors, that we should refrain from augmenting their 
unhappiness by an appearance of immoderate grief? It is also a duty owed to 
yourself; for excessive sorrow prevents improvement or enjoyment, or even the 
discharge of daily usefulness, without which no man is fit for society."
This advice, although good, was totally inapplicable to my case; I should have 
been the first to hide my grief, and console my friends, if remorse had not 
mingled its bitterness, and terror its alarm with my other sensations. Now I 
could only answer my father with a look of despair, and endeavour to hide 
myself from his view.
About this time we retired to our house at Belrive. This change was 
particularly agreeable to me. The shutting of the gates regularly at ten 
o'clock, and the impossibility of remaining on the lake after that hour, had 
rendered our residence within the walls of Geneva very irksome to me. I was 
now free. Often, after the rest of the family had retired for the night, I 
took the boat, and passed many hours upon the water. Sometimes, with my sails 
set, I was carried by the wind; and sometimes, after rowing into the middle of 
the lake, I left the boat to pursue its own course, and gave way to my own 
miserable reflections. I was often tempted, when all was at peace around me, 
and I the only unquiet thing that wandered restless in a scene so beautiful 
and heavenly -if I except some bat, or the frogs, whose harsh and interrupted 
croaking was heard only when I approached the shore -often, I say, I was 
tempted to plunge into the silent lake, that the waters might close over me 
and my calamities for ever. But I was restrained, when I thought of the heroic 
and suffering Elizabeth, whom I tenderly loved, and whose existence was bound 
up in mine. I thought also of my father, and surviving brother: should I by my 
base desertion leave them exposed and unprotected to the malice of the fiend 
whom I had let loose among them?
At these moments I wept bitterly, and wished that peace would revisit my mind 
only that I might afford them consolation and happiness. But that could not 
be. Remorse extinguished every hope. I had been the author of unalterable 
evils; and I lived in daily fear, lest the monster whom I had created should 
perpetrate some new wickedness. I had an obscure feeling that all was not 
over, and that he would still commit some signal crime, which by its enormity 
should almost efface the recollection of the past. There was always scope for 
fear, so long as any thing I loved remained behind. My abhorrence of this 
fiend cannot be conceived. When I thought of him, I gnashed my teeth, my eyes 
became inflamed, and I ardently wished to extinguish that life which I had so 
thoughtlessly bestowed. When I reflected on his crimes and malice, my hatred 
and revenge burst all bounds of moderation. I would have made a pilgrimage to 
the highest peak of the Andes, could I, when there, have precipitated him to 
their base. I wished to see him again, that I might wreak the utmost extent of 
abhorrence on his head, and avenge the deaths of William and Justine.
Our house was the house of mourning. My father's health was deeply shaken by 
the horror of the recent events. Elizabeth was sad and desponding; she no 
longer took delight in her ordinary occupations; all pleasure seemed to her 
sacrilege toward the dead; eternal woe and tears she then thought was the just 
tribute she should pay to innocence so blasted and destroyed. She was no 
longer that happy creature, who in earlier youth wandered with me on the banks 
of the lake, and talked with ecstasy of our future prospects. The first of 
those sorrows which are sent to wean us from the earth, had visited her, and 
its dimming influence quenched her dearest smiles.
"When I reflect, my dear cousin," said she, "on the miserable death of Justine 
Moritz, I no longer see the world and its works as they before appeared to me. 
Before, I looked upon the accounts of vice and injustice, that I read in books 
or heard from others, as tales of ancient days, or imaginary evils; at least 
they were remote, and more familiar to reason than to the imagination; but now 
misery has come home, and men appear to me as monsters thirsting for each 
other's blood. Yet I am certainly unjust. Every body believed that poor girl 
to be guilty; and if she could have committed the crime for which she 
suffered, assuredly she would have been the most depraved of human creatures. 
For the sake of a few jewels, to have murdered the son of her benefactor and 
friend, a child whom she had nursed from its birth, and appeared to love as if 
it had been her own! I could not consent to the death of any human being; but 
certainly I should have thought such a creature unfit to remain in the society 
of men. But she was innocent. I know, I feel she was innocent; you are of the 
same opinion, and that confirms me. Alas! Victor, when falsehood can look so 
like the truth, who can assure themselves of certain happiness? I feel as if I 
were walking on the edge of a precipice, towards which thousands are crowding, 
and endeavouring to plunge me into the abyss, William and Justine were 
assassinated, and the murderer escapes; he walks about the world free, and 
perhaps respected. But even if I were condemned to suffer on the scaffold for 
the same crimes, I would not change places with such a wretch."
I listened to this discourse with the extremest agony. I, not in deed, but in 
effect, was the true murderer. Elizabeth read my anguish in my countenance, 
and kindly taking my hand, said, "My dearest friend, you must calm yourself. 
These events have affected me, God knows how deeply; but I am not so wretched 
as you are. There is an expression of despair, and sometimes of revenge, in 
your countenance, that makes me tremble. Dear Victor, banish these dark 
passions. Remember the friends around you, who centre all their hopes in you. 
Have we lost the power of rendering you happy? Ah! while we love -while we are 
true to each other, here in this land of peace and beauty, your native 
country, we may reap every tranquil blessing, -what can disturb our peace?"
And could not such words from her whom I fondly prized before every other gift 
of fortune, suffice to chase away the fiend that lurked in my heart? Even as 
she spoke I drew near to her, as if in terror; lest at that very moment the 
destroyer had been near to rob me of her.
Thus not the tenderness of friendship, nor the beauty of earth, nor of heaven, 
could redeem my soul from woe: the very accents of love were ineffectual. I 
was encompassed by a cloud which no beneficial influence could penetrate. The 
wounded deer dragging its fainting limbs to some untrodden brake, there to 
gaze upon the arrow which had pierced it, and to die -was but a type of me.
Sometimes I could cope with the sullen despair that overwhelmed me: but 
sometimes the whirlwind passions of my soul drove me to seek, by bodily 
exercise and by change of place, some relief from my intolerable sensations. 
It was during an access of this kind that I suddenly left my home, and bending 
my steps towards the near Alpine valleys, sought in the magnificence, the 
eternity of such scenes, to forget myself and my ephemeral, because human, 
sorrows. My wanderings were directed towards the valley of Chamounix. I had 
visited it frequently during my boyhood. Six years had passed since then: I 
was a wreck -but nought had changed in those savage and enduring scenes.
I performed the first part of my journey on horseback. I afterwards hired a 
mule, as the more surefooted, and least liable to receive injury on these 
rugged roads. The weather was fine: it was about the middle of the month of 
August, nearly two months after the death of Justine; that miserable epoch 
from which I dated all my woe. The weight upon my spirit was sensibly 
lightened as I plunged yet deeper in the ravine of Arve. The immense mountains 
and precipices that overhung me on every side -the sound of the river raging 
among the rocks, and the dashing of the waterfalls around, spoke of a power 
mighty as Omnipotence -and I ceased to fear, or to bend before any being less 
almighty than that which had created and ruled the elements, here displayed in 
their most terrific guise. Still, as I ascended higher, the valley assumed a 
more magnificent and astonishing character. Ruined castles hanging on the 
precipices of piny mountains; the impetuous Arve, and cottages every here and 
there peeping forth from among the trees, formed a scene of singular beauty. 
But it was augmented and rendered sublime by the mighty Alps, whose white and 
shining pyramids and domes towered above all, as belonging to another earth, 
the habitations of another race of beings.
I passed the bridge of Pelissier, where the ravine, which the river forms, 
opened before me, and I began to ascend the mountain that overhangs it. Soon 
after I entered the valley of Chamounix. This valley is more wonderful and 
sublime, but not so beautiful and picturesque, as that of Servox, through 
which I had just passed. The high and snowy mountains were its immediate 
boundaries; but I saw no more ruined castles and fertile fields. Immense 
glaciers approached the road; I heard the rumbling thunder of the falling 
avalanche, and marked the smoke of its passage. Mont Blanc, the supreme and 
magnificent Mont Blanc, raised itself from the surrounding aiguilles, and its 
tremendous dome overlooked the valley.
A tingling long-lost sense of pleasure often came across me during this 
journey. Some turn in the road, some new object suddenly perceived and 
recognized, reminded me of days gone by, and were associated with the 
light-hearted gaiety of boyhood. The very winds whispered in soothing accents, 
and maternal nature bade me weep no more. Then again the kindly influence 
ceased to act -I found myself fettered again to grief, and indulging in all 
the misery of reflection. Then I spurred on my animal, striving so to forget 
the world, my fears, and, more than all, myself -or, in a more desperate 
fashion, I alighted, and threw myself on the grass, weighed down by horror and 
despair.
At length I arrived at the village of Chamounix. Exhaustion succeeded to the 
extreme fatigue both of body and of mind which I had endured. For a short 
space of time I remained at the window, watching the pallid lightnings that 
played above Mont Blanc, and listening to the rushing of the Arve, which 
pursued its noisy way beneath. The same lulling sounds acted as a lullaby to 
my too keen sensations: when I placed my head upon my pillow, sleep crept over 
me; I felt it as it came, and blest the giver of oblivion.


Chapter 10

I spent the following day roaming through the valley. I stood beside the 
sources of the Arveiron, which take their rise in a glacier, that with slow 
pace is advancing down from the summit of the hills, to barricade the valley. 
The abrupt sides of vast mountains were before me; the icy wall of the glacier 
overhung me; a few shattered pines were scattered around; and the solemn 
silence of this glorious presence-chamber of imperial Nature was broken only 
by the brawling waves, or the fall of some vast fragment, the thunder sound of 
the avalanche, or the cracking, reverberated along the mountains, of the 
accumulated ice, which, through the silent working of immutable laws, was ever 
and anon rent and torn, as if it had been but a plaything in their hands. 
These sublime and magnificent scenes afforded me the greatest consolation that 
I was capable of receiving. They elevated me from all littleness of feeling; 
and although they did not remove my grief, they subdued and tranquillised it. 
In some degree, also, they diverted my mind from the thoughts over which it 
had brooded for the last month. I retired to rest at night; my slumbers, as it 
were, waited on and ministered to by the assemblance of grand shapes which I 
had contemplated during the day. They congregated round me; the unstained 
snowy mountain-top, the glittering pinnacle, the pine woods, and ragged bare 
ravine; the eagle, soaring amidst the clouds -they all gathered round me, and 
bade me be at peace.
Where had they fled when the next morning I awoke? All of soul-inspiriting 
fled with sleep, and dark melancholy clouded every thought. The rain was 
pouring in torrents, and thick mists hid the summits of the mountains, so that 
I even saw not the faces of those mighty friends. Still I would penetrate 
their misty veil, and seek them in their cloudy retreats. What were rain and 
storm to me? My mule was brought to the door, and I resolved to ascend to the 
summit of Montanvert. I remembered the effect that the view of the tremendous 
and ever-moving glacier had produced upon my mind when I first saw it. It had 
then filled me with a sublime ecstasy, that gave wings to the soul, and 
allowed it to soar from the obscure world to light and joy. The sight of the 
awful and majestic in nature had indeed always the effect of solemnising my 
mind, and causing me to forget the passing cares of life. I determined to go 
without a guide, for I was well acquainted with the path, and the presence of 
another would destroy the solitary grandeur of the scene.
The ascent is precipitous, but the path is cut into continual and short 
windings, which enable you to surmount the perpendicularity of the mountain. 
It is a scene terrifically desolate. In a thousand spots the traces of the 
winter avalanche may be perceived, where trees lie broken and strewed on the 
ground; some entirely destroyed, others bent, leaning upon the jutting rocks 
of the mountain, or transversely upon other trees. The path, as you ascend 
higher, is intersected by ravines of snow, down which stones continually roll 
from above; one of them is particularly dangerous, as the slightest sound, 
such as even speaking in a loud voice, produces a concussion of air sufficient 
to draw destruction upon the head of the speaker. The pines are not tall or 
luxuriant, but they are sombre, and add an air of severity to the scene. I 
looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the rivers which ran 
through it, and curling in thick wreaths around the opposite mountains, whose 
summits were hid in the uniform clouds, while rain poured from the dark sky, 
and added to the melancholy impression I received from the objects around me. 
Alas! why does man boast of sensibilities superior to those apparent in the 
brute; it only renders them more necessary beings. If our impulses were 
confined to hunger, thirst, and desire, we might be nearly free; but now we 
are moved by every wind that blows, and a chance word or scene that that word 
may convey to us.

"We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep.
We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day.
We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep,
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away;
It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free.
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but mutability!"

It was nearly noon when I arrived at the top of the ascent. For some time I 
sat upon the rock that overlooks the sea of ice. A mist covered both that and 
the surrounding mountains. Presently a breeze dissipated the cloud, and I 
descended upon the glacier. The surface is very uneven, rising like the waves 
of a troubled sea, descending low, and interspersed by rifts that sink deep. 
The field of ice is almost a league in width, but I spent nearly two hours in 
crossing it. The opposite mountain is a bare perpendicular rock. From the side 
where I now stood Montanvert was exactly opposite, at the distance of a 
league; and above it rose Mont Blanc, in awful majesty. I remained in a recess 
of the rock, gazing on this wonderful and stupendous scene. The sea, or rather 
the vast river of ice, wound among its dependent mountains, whose aerial 
summits hung over its recesses. Their icy and glittering peaks shone in the 
sunlight over the clouds. My heart, which was before sorrowful, now swelled 
with something like joy; I exclaimed -"Wandering spirits, if indeed ye wander, 
and do not rest in your narrow beds, allow me this faint happiness, or take 
me, as your companion, away from the joys of life."
As I said this, I suddenly beheld the figure of a man, at some distance, 
advancing towards me with superhuman speed. He bounded over the crevices in 
the ice, among which I had walked with caution; his stature, also, as he 
approached, seemed to exceed that of man. I was troubled: a mist came over my 
eyes, and I felt a faintness seize me; but I was quickly restored by the cold 
gale of the mountains. I perceived, as the shape came nearer (sight tremendous 
and abhorred?) that it was the wretch whom I had created. I trembled with rage 
and horror, resolving to wait his approach, and then close with him in mortal 
combat. He approached; his countenance bespoke bitter anguish, combined with 
disdain and malignity, while its unearthly ugliness rendered it almost too 
horrible for human eyes. But I scarcely observed this; rage and hatred had at 
first deprived me of utterance, and I recovered only to overwhelm him with 
words expressive of furious detestation and contempt.
"Devil," I exclaimed, "do you dare approach me? and do not you fear the fierce 
vengeance of my arm wreaked on your miserable head? Begone, vile insect! or 
rather, stay, that I may trample you to dust! and, oh! that I could, with the 
extinction of your miserable existence, restore those victims whom you have so 
diabolically murdered!"
"I expected this reception," said the daemon. "All men hate the wretched; how, 
then, must I be hated, who am miserable beyond all living things! Yet you, my 
creator, detest and spurn me, thy creature, to whom thou art bound by ties 
only dissoluble by the annihilation of one of us. You purpose to kill me. How 
dare you sport thus with life? Do your duty towards me, and I will do mine 
towards you and the rest of mankind. If you will comply with my conditions, I 
will leave them and you at peace; but if you refuse, I will glut the maw of 
death, until it be satiated with the blood of your remaining friends."
"Abhorred monster! fiend that thou art! the tortures of hell are too mild a 
vengeance for thy crimes. Wretched devil! you reproach me with your creation; 
come on, then, that I may extinguish the spark which I so negligently bestowed."
My rage was without bounds; I sprang on him, impelled by all the feelings 
which can arm one being against the existence of another.
He easily eluded me, and said -
"Be calm! I entreat you to hear me, before you give vent to your hatred on my 
devoted head. Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to increase my misery? 
Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I 
will defend it. Remember, thou hast made me more powerful than thyself; my 
height is superior to thine; my joints more supple. But I will not be tempted 
to set myself in opposition to thee. I am thy creature, and I will be even 
mild and docile to my natural lord and king, if thou wilt also perform thy 
part, the which thou owest me. Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every 
other, and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency 
and affection, is most due. Remember, that I am thy creature; I ought to be 
thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no 
misdeed. Every where I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. 
I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall 
again be virtuous."
"Begone! I will not hear you. There can be no community between you and me; we 
are enemies. Begone, or let us try our strength in a fight, in which one must 
fall."
"How can I move thee? Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye 
upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and compassion? Believe me, 
Frankenstein: I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity: but am 
I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I 
gather from your fellow-creatures, who owe me nothing? they spurn and hate me. 
The desert mountains and dreary glaciers are my refuge. I have wandered here 
many days; the caves of ice, which I only do not fear, are a dwelling to me, 
and the only one which man does not grudge. These bleak skies I hail, for they 
are kinder to me than your fellow-beings. If the multitude of mankind knew of 
my existence, they would do as you do, and arm themselves for my destruction. 
Shall I not then hate them who abhor me? I will keep no terms with my enemies. 
I am miserable, and they shall share my wretchedness. Yet it is in your power 
to recompense me, and deliver them from an evil which it only remains for you 
to make so great, that not only you and your family, but thousands of others, 
shall be swallowed up in the whirlwinds of its rage. Let your compassion be 
moved, and do not disdain me. Listen to my tale: when you have heard that, 
abandon or commiserate me, as you shall judge that I deserve. But hear me. The 
guilty are allowed, by human laws, bloody as they are, to speak in their own 
defence before they are condemned. Listen to me, Frankenstein. You accuse me 
of murder; and yet you would, with a satisfied conscience, destroy your own 
creature. Oh, praise the eternal justice of man! Yet I ask you not to spare 
me: listen to me; and then, if you can, and if you will, destroy the work of 
your hands."
"Why do you call to my remembrance," I rejoined, "circumstances, of which I 
shudder to reflect, that I have been the miserable origin and author? Cursed 
be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light! Cursed (although I 
curse myself ) be the hands that formed you! You have made me wretched beyond 
expression. You have left me no power to consider whether I am just to you, or 
not. Begone! relieve me from the sight of your detested form."
"Thus I relieve thee, my creator," he said, and placed his hated hands before 
my eyes, which I flung from me with violence; "thus I take from thee a sight 
which you abhor. Still thou canst listen to me, and grant me thy compassion. 
By the virtues that I once possessed, I demand this from you. Hear my tale; it 
is long and strange, and the temperature of this place is not fitting to your 
fine sensations; come to the hut upon the mountain. The sun is yet high in the 
heavens; before it descends to hide itself behind yon snowy precipices, and 
illuminate another world, you will have heard my story, and can decide. On you 
it rests, whether I quit for ever the neighbourhood of man, and lead a 
harmless life, or become the scourge of your fellow-creatures, and the author 
of your own speedy ruin."
As he said this, he led the way across the ice: I followed. My heart was full, 
and I did not answer him; but, as I proceeded, I weighed the various arguments 
that he had used, and determined at least to listen to his tale. I was partly 
urged by curiosity, and compassion confirmed my resolution. I had hitherto 
supposed him to be the murderer of my brother, and I eagerly sought a 
confirmation or denial of this opinion. For the first time, also, I felt what 
the duties of a creator towards his creature were, and that I ought to render 
him happy before I complained of his wickedness. These motives urged me to 
comply with his demand. We crossed the ice, therefore, and ascended the 
opposite rock. The air was cold, and the rain again began to descend: we 
entered the hut, the fiend with an air of exultation, I with a heavy heart, 
and depressed spirits. But I consented to listen; and, seating myself by the 
fire which my odious companion had lighted, he thus began his tale.


Chapter 11

"It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the original era of my 
being: all the events of that period appear confused and indistinct. A strange 
multiplicity of sensations seized me, and I saw, felt, heard, and smelt, at 
the same time; and it was, indeed, a long time before I learned to distinguish 
between the operations of my various senses. By degrees, I remember, a 
stronger light pressed upon my nerves, so that I was obliged to shut my eyes. 
Darkness then came over me, and troubled me; but hardly had I felt this, when, 
by opening my eyes, as I now suppose, the light poured in upon me again. I 
walked, and, I believe, descended; but I presently found a great alteration in 
my sensations. Before, dark and opaque bodies had surrounded me, impervious to 
my touch or sight; but I now found that I could wander on at liberty, with no 
obstacles which I could not either surmount or avoid. The light became more 
and more oppressive to me; and, the heat wearying me as I walked, I sought a 
place where I could receive shade. This was the forest near Ingolstadt; and 
here I lay by the side of a brook resting from my fatigue, until I felt 
tormented by hunger and thirst. This roused me from my nearly dormant state, 
and I ate some berries which I found hanging on the trees, or lying on the 
ground. I slaked my thirst at the brook; and then lying down, was overcome by 
sleep.
"It was dark when I awoke; I felt cold also, and half-frightened, as it were 
instinctively, finding myself so desolate. Before I had quitted your 
apartment, on a sensation of cold, I had covered myself with some clothes; but 
these were insufficient to secure me from the dews of night. I was a poor, 
helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish, nothing; but 
feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and wept.
"Soon a gentle light stole over the heavens, and gave me a sensation of 
pleasure. I started up, and beheld a radiant form rise from among the trees. I 
gazed with a kind of wonder. It moved slowly, but it enlightened my path; and 
I again went out in search of berries. I was still cold, when under one of the 
trees I found a huge cloak, with which I covered myself, and sat down upon the 
ground. No distinct ideas occupied my mind; all was confused. I felt light, 
and hunger, and thirst, and darkness; innumerable sounds rung in my ears, and 
on all sides various scents saluted me: the only object that I could 
distinguish was the bright moon, and I fixed my eyes on that with pleasure.
"Several changes of day and night passed, and the orb of night had greatly 
lessened, when I began to distinguish my sensations from each other. I 
gradually saw plainly the clear stream that supplied me with drink, and the 
trees that shaded me with their foliage. I was delighted when I first 
discovered that a pleasant sound, which often saluted my ears, proceeded from 
the throats of the little winged animals who had often intercepted the light 
from my eyes. I began also to observe, with greater accuracy, the forms that 
surrounded me, and to perceive the boundaries of the radiant roof of light 
which canopied me. Sometimes I tried to imitate the pleasant songs of the 
birds, but was unable. Sometimes I wished to express my sensations in my own 
mode, but the uncouth and inarticulate sounds which broke from me frightened 
me into silence again.
"The moon had disappeared from the night, and again, with a lessened form, 
showed itself, while I still remained in the forest. My sensations had, by 
this time, become distinct, and my mind received every day additional ideas. 
My eyes became accustomed to the light, and to perceive objects in their right 
forms; I distinguished the insect from the herb, and, by degrees, one herb 
from another. I found that the sparrow uttered none but harsh notes, whilst 
those of the blackbird and thrush were sweet and enticing.
"One day, when I was oppressed by cold, I found a fire which had been left by 
some wandering beggars, and was overcome with delight at the warmth I 
experienced from it. In my joy I thrust my hand into the live embers, but 
quickly drew it out again with a cry of pain. How strange, I thought, that the 
same cause should produce such opposite effects! I examined the materials of 
the fire, and to my joy found it to be composed of wood. I quickly collected 
some branches; but they were wet, and would not burn. I was pained at this, 
and sat still watching the operation of the fire. The wet wood which I had 
placed near the heat dried, and itself became inflamed. I reflected on this; 
and, by touching the various branches, I discovered the cause, and busied 
myself in collecting a great quantity of wood, that I might dry it, and have a 
plentiful supply of fire. When night came on, and brought sleep with it, I was 
in the greatest fear lest my fire should be extinguished. I covered it 
carefully with dry wood and leaves, and placed wet branches upon it; and then, 
spreading my cloak, I lay on the ground, and sunk into sleep.
"It was morning when I awoke, and my first care was to visit the fire. I 
uncovered it, and a gentle breeze quickly fanned it into a flame. I observed 
this also, and contrived a fan of branches, which roused the embers when they 
were nearly extinguished. When night came again, I found, with pleasure, that 
the fire gave light as well as heat; and that the discovery of this element 
was useful to me in my food; for I found some of the offals that the 
travellers had left had been roasted, and tasted much more savoury than the 
berries I gathered from the trees. I tried, therefore, to dress my food in the 
same manner, placing it on the live embers. I found that the berries were 
spoiled by this operation, and the nuts and roots much improved.
"Food, however, became scarce; and I often spent the whole day searching in 
vain for a few acorns to assuage the pangs of hunger. When I found this, I 
resolved to quit the place that I had hitherto inhabited, to seek for one 
where the few wants I experienced would be more easily satisfied. In this 
emigration, I exceedingly lamented the loss of the fire which I had obtained 
through accident, and knew not how to reproduce it. I gave several hours to 
the serious consideration of this difficulty; but I was obliged to relinquish 
all attempt to supply it; and, wrapping myself up in my cloak, I struck across 
the wood towards the setting sun. I passed three days in these rambles, and at 
length discovered the open country. A great fall of snow had taken place the 
night before, and the fields were of one uniform white; the appearance was 
disconsolate, and I found my feet chilled by the cold damp substance that 
covered the ground.
"It was about seven in the morning, and I longed to obtain food and shelter; 
at length I perceived a small hut, on a rising ground, which had doubtless 
been built for the convenience of some shepherd. This was a new sight to me; 
and I examined the structure with great curiosity. Finding the door open, I 
entered. An old man sat in it, near a fire, over which he was preparing his 
breakfast. He turned on hearing a noise; and, perceiving me, shrieked loudly, 
and, quitting the hut, ran across the fields with a speed of which his 
debilitated form hardly appeared capable. His appearance, different from any I 
had ever before seen, and his flight, somewhat surprised me. But I was 
enchanted by the appearance of the hut: here the snow and rain could not 
penetrate; the ground was dry; and it presented to me then as exquisite and 
divine a retreat as Pandemonium appeared to the daemons of hell after their 
sufferings in the lake of fire. I greedily devoured the remnants of the 
shepherd's breakfast, which consisted of bread, cheese, milk, and wine; the 
latter, however, I did not like. Then, overcome by fatigue, I lay down among 
some straw, and fell asleep.
"It was noon when I awoke; and, allured by the warmth of the sun, which shone 
brightly on the white ground, I determined to recommence my travels; and, 
depositing the remains of the peasant's breakfast in a wallet I found, I 
proceeded across the fields for several hours, until at sunset I arrived at a 
village. How miraculous did this appear! the huts, the neater cottages, and 
stately houses, engaged my admiration by turns. The vegetables in the gardens, 
the milk and cheese that I saw placed at the windows of some of the cottages, 
allured my appetite. One of the best of these I entered; but I had hardly 
placed my foot within the door, before the children shrieked, and one of the 
women fainted. The whole village was roused; some fled, some attacked me, 
until, grievously bruised by stones and many other kinds of missile weapons, I 
escaped to the open country, and fearfully took refuge in a low hovel, quite 
bare, and making a wretched appearance after the palaces I had beheld in the 
village. This hovel, however, joined a cottage of a neat and pleasant 
appearance; but, after my late dearly bought experience, I dared not enter it. 
My place of refuge was constructed of wood, but so low, that I could with 
difficulty sit upright in it. No wood, however, was placed on the earth, which 
formed the floor, but it was dry; and although the wind entered it by 
innumerable chinks, I found it an agreeable asylum from the snow and rain.
"Here then I retreated, and lay down happy to have found a shelter, however 
miserable, from the inclemency of the season, and still more from the 
barbarity of man.
"As soon as morning dawned, I crept from my kennel, that I might view the 
adjacent cottage, and discover if I could remain in the habitation I had 
found. It was situated against the back of the cottage, and surrounded on the 
sides which were exposed by a pigsty and a clear pool of water. One part was 
open, and by that I had crept in; but now I covered every crevice by which I 
might be perceived with stones and wood, yet in such a manner that I might 
move them on occasion to pass out: all the light I enjoyed came through the 
sty, and that was sufficient for me.
"Having thus arranged my dwelling, and carpeted it with clean straw, I 
retired; for I saw the figure of a man at a distance, and I remembered too 
well my treatment the night before, to trust myself in his power. I had first, 
however, provided for my sustenance for that day, by a loaf of coarse bread, 
which I purloined, and a cup with which I could drink, more conveniently than 
from my hand, of the pure water which flowed by my retreat. The floor was a 
little raised, so that it was kept perfectly dry, and by its vicinity to the 
chimney of the cottage it was tolerably warm.
"Being thus provided, I resolved to reside in this hovel, until something 
should occur which might alter my determination. It was indeed a paradise, 
compared to the bleak forest, my former residence, the rain-dropping branches, 
and dank earth. I ate my breakfast with pleasure, and was about to remove a 
plank to procure myself a little water, when I heard a step, and looking 
through a small chink, I beheld a young creature, with a pail on her head, 
passing before my hovel. The girl was young, and of gentle demeanour, unlike 
what I have since found cottagers and farmhouse servants to be. Yet she was 
meanly dressed, a coarse blue petticoat and a linen jacket being her only 
garb; her fair hair was plaited, but not adorned: she looked patient, yet sad. 
I lost sight of her; and in about a quarter of an hour she returned, bearing 
the pail, which was now partly filled with milk. As she walked along, 
seemingly incommoded by the burden, a young man met her, whose countenance 
expressed a deeper despondence. Uttering a few sounds with an air of 
melancholy, he took the pail from her head, and bore it to the cottage 
himself. She followed, and they disappeared. Presently I saw the young man 
again, with some tools in his hand, cross the field behind the cottage; and 
the girl was also busied, sometimes in the house, and sometimes in the yard.
"On examining my dwelling, I found that one of the windows of the cottage had 
formerly occupied a part of it, but the panes had been filled up with wood. In 
one of these was a small and almost imperceptible chink, through which the eye 
could just penetrate. Through this crevice a small room was visible, 
whitewashed and clean, but very bare of furniture. In one corner, near a small 
fire, sat an old man, leaning his head on his hands in a disconsolate 
attitude. The young girl was occupied in arranging the cottage; but presently 
she took something out of a drawer, which employed her hands, and she sat down 
beside the old man, who, taking up an instrument, began to play, and to 
produce sounds sweeter than the voice of the thrush or the nightingale. It was 
a lovely sight, even to me, poor wretch! who had never beheld aught beautiful 
before. The silver hair and benevolent countenance of the aged cottager won my 
reverence, while the gentle manners of the girl enticed my love. He played a 
sweet mournful air, which I perceived drew tears from the eyes of his amiable 
companion, of which the old man took no notice, until she sobbed audibly; he 
then pronounced a few sounds, and the fair creature, leaving her work, knelt 
at his feet. He raised her, and smiled with such kindness and affection, that 
I felt sensations of a peculiar and overpowering nature: they were a mixture 
of pain and pleasure, such as I had never before experienced, either from 
hunger or cold, warmth or food; and I withdrew from the window, unable to bear 
these emotions. "Soon after this the young man returned, bearing on his 
shoulders a load of wood. The girl met him at the door, helped to relieve him 
of his burden, and, taking some of the fuel into the cottage, placed it on the 
fire; then she and the youth went apart into a nook of the cottage, and he 
showed her a large loaf and a piece of cheese. She seemed pleased, and went 
into the garden for some roots and plants, which she placed in water, and then 
upon the fire. She afterwards continued her work, whilst the young man went 
into the garden, and appeared busily employed in digging and pulling up roots. 
After he had been employed thus about an hour, the young woman joined him, and 
they entered the cottage together.
The old man had, in the mean time, been pensive; but, on the appearance of his 
companions, he assumed a more cheerful air, and they sat down to eat. The meal 
was quickly despatched. The young woman was again occupied in arranging the 
cottage; the old man walked before the cottage in the sun for a few minutes, 
leaning on the arm of the youth. Nothing could exceed in beauty the contrast 
between these two excellent creatures. One was old, with silver hairs and a 
countenance beaming with benevolence and love: the younger was slight and 
graceful in his figure, and his features were moulded with the finest 
symmetry; yet his eyes and attitude expressed the utmost sadness and 
despondency. The old man returned to the cottage; and the youth, with tools 
different from those he had used in the morning, directed his steps across the 
fields.
"Night quickly shut in; but, to my extreme wonder, I found that the cottagers 
had a means of prolonging light by the use of tapers, and was delighted to 
find that the setting of the sun did not put an end to the pleasure I 
experienced in watching my human neighbours. In the evening, the young girl 
and her companion were employed in various occupations which I did not 
understand; and the old man again took up the instrument which produced the 
divine sounds that had enchanted me in the morning. So soon as he had 
finished, the youth began, not to play, but to utter sounds that were 
monotonous, and neither resembling the harmony of the old man's instrument nor 
the songs of the birds: I since found that he read aloud, but at that time I 
knew nothing of the science of words or letters.
"The family, after having been thus occupied for a short time, extinguished 
their lights, and retired, as I conjectured, to rest.


Chapter 12

"I lay on my straw, but I could not sleep. I thought of the occurrences of the 
day. What chiefly struck me was the gentle manners of these people; and I 
longed to join them, but dared not. I remembered too well the treatment I had 
suffered the night before from the barbarous villagers, and resolved, whatever 
course of conduct I might hereafter think it right to pursue, that for the 
present I would remain quietly in my hovel, watching, and endeavouring to 
discover the motives which influenced their actions.
"The cottagers arose the next morning before the sun. The young woman arranged 
the cottage, and prepared the food; and the youth departed after the first meal.
"This day was passed in the same routine as that which preceded it. The young 
man was constantly employed out of doors, and the girl in various laborious 
occupations within. The old man, whom I soon perceived to be blind, employed 
his leisure hours on his instrument or in contemplation. Nothing could exceed 
the love and respect which the younger cottagers exhibited towards their 
venerable companion. They performed towards him every little office of 
affection and duty with gentleness; and he rewarded them by his benevolent 
smiles.
"They were not entirely happy. The young man and his companion often went 
apart, and appeared to weep. I saw no cause for their unhappiness; but I was 
deeply affected by it. If such lovely creatures were miserable, it was less 
strange that I, an imperfect and solitary being, should be wretched. Yet why 
were these gentle beings unhappy? They possessed a delightful house (for such 
it was in my eyes) and every luxury; they had a fire to warm them when chill, 
and delicious viands when hungry; they were dressed in excellent clothes; and, 
still more, they enjoyed one another's company and speech, interchanging each 
day looks of affection and kindness. What did their tears imply? Did they 
really express pain? I was at first unable to solve these questions; but 
perpetual attention and time explained to me many appearances which were at 
first enigmatic.
"A considerable period elapsed before I discovered one of the causes of the 
uneasiness of this amiable family: it was poverty; and they reserved that evil 
in a very distressing degree. Their nourishment consisted entirely of the 
vegetables of their garden, and the milk of one cow, which gave very little 
during the winter, when its masters could scarcely procure food to support it. 
They often, I believe, suffered the pangs of hunger very poignantly, 
especially the two younger cottagers; for several times they placed food 
before the old man, when they reserved none for themselves.
"This trait of kindness moved me sensibly. I had been accustomed, during the 
night, to steal a part of their store for my own consumption; but when I found 
that in doing this I inflicted pain on the cottagers, I abstained, and 
satisfied myself with berries, nuts, and roots, which I gathered from a 
neighbouring wood.
"I discovered also another means through which I was enabled to assist their 
labours. I found that the youth spent a great part of each day in collecting 
wood for the family fire; and, during the night, I often took his tools, the 
use of which I quickly discovered, and brought home firing sufficient for the 
consumption of several days.
"I remember, the first time that I did this, the young woman, when she opened 
the door in the morning, appeared greatly astonished on seeing a great pile of 
wood on the outside. She uttered some words in a loud voice, and the youth 
joined her, who also expressed surprise. I observed, with pleasure, that he 
did not go to the forest that day, but spent it in repairing the cottage, and 
cultivating the garden.
"By degrees I made a discovery of still greater moment. I found that these 
people possessed a method of communicating their experience and feelings to 
one another by articulate sounds. I perceived that the words they spoke 
sometimes, produced pleasure or pain, smiles or sadness, in the minds and 
countenances of the hearers. This was indeed a godlike science, and I ardently 
desired to become acquainted with it. But I was baffled in every attempt I 
made for this purpose. Their pronunciation was quick; and the words they 
uttered, not having any apparent connection with visible objects, I was unable 
to discover any clue by which I could unravel the mystery of their reference. 
By great application, however, and after having remained during the space of 
several revolutions of the moon in my hovel, I discovered the names that were 
given to some of the most familiar objects of discourse; I learned and applied 
the words, fire, milk, bread, and wood. I learned also the names of the 
cottagers themselves. The youth and his companion had each of them several 
names, but the old man had only one, which was father. The girl was called 
sister, or Agatha; and the youth Felix, brother, or son. I cannot describe the 
delight I felt when I learned the ideas appropriated to each of these sounds, 
and was able to pronounce them. I distinguished several other words, without 
being able as yet to understand or apply them; such as good, dearest, unhappy.
"I spent the winter in this manner. The gentle manners and beauty of the 
cottagers greatly endeared them to me: when they were unhappy, I felt 
depressed; when they rejoiced, I sympathised in their joys. I saw few human 
beings beside them; and if any other happened to enter the cottage, their 
harsh manners and rude gait only enhanced to me the superior accomplishments 
of my friends. The old man, I could perceive, often endeavoured to encourage 
his children, as sometimes I found that he called them, to cast off their 
melancholy. He would talk in a cheerful accent, with an expression of goodness 
that bestowed pleasure even upon me. Agatha listened with respect, her eyes 
sometimes filled with tears, which she endeavoured to wipe away unperceived; 
but I generally found that her countenance and tone were more cheerful after 
having listened to the exhortations of her father. It was not thus with Felix. 
He was always the saddest of the group; and, even to my unpractised senses, he 
appeared to have suffered more deeply than his friends. But if his countenance 
was more sorrowful, his voice was more cheerful than that of his sister, 
especially when he addressed the old man.
"I could mention innumerable instances, which, although slight, marked the 
dispositions of these amiable cottagers. In the midst of poverty and want, 
Felix carried with pleasure to his sister the first little white flower that 
peeped out from beneath the snowy ground. Early in the morning, before she had 
risen, he cleared away the snow that obstructed her path to the milk-house, 
drew water from the well, and brought the wood from the outhouse, where, to 
his perpetual astonishment, he found his store always replenished by an 
invisible hand. In the day, I believe, he worked sometimes for a neighbouring 
farmer, because he often went forth, and did not return until dinner, yet 
brought no wood with him. At other times he worked in the garden; but, as 
there was little to do in the frosty season, he read to the old man and Agatha.
"This reading had puzzled me extremely at first; but, by degrees, I discovered 
that he uttered many of the same sounds when he read, as when he talked. I 
conjectured, therefore, that he found on the paper signs for speech which he 
understood, and I ardently longed to comprehend these also; but how was that 
possible, when I did not even understand the sounds for which they stood as 
signs? I improved, however, sensibly in this science, but not sufficiently to 
follow up any kind of conversation, although I applied my whole mind to the 
endeavour: for I easily perceived that, although I eagerly longed to discover 
myself to the cottagers, I ought not to make the attempt until I had first 
become master of their language; which knowledge might enable me to make them 
overlook the deformity of my figure; for with this also the contrast 
perpetually presented to my eyes had made me acquainted.
"I had admired the perfect forms of my cottagers -their grace, beauty, and 
delicate complexions: but how was I terrified, when I viewed myself in a 
transparent pool! At first I started back, unable to believe that it was 
indeed I who was reflected in the mirror; and when I became fully convinced 
that I was in reality the monster that I am, I was filled with the bitterest 
sensations of despondence and mortification. Alas! I did not yet entirely know 
the fatal effects of this miserable deformity.
"As the sun became warmer, and the light of day longer, the snow vanished, and 
I beheld the bare trees and the black earth. From this time Felix was more 
employed; and the heart-moving indications of impending famine disappeared. 
Their food, as I afterwards found, was coarse, but it was wholesome; and they 
procured a sufficiency of it. Several new kinds of plants sprung up in the 
garden, which they dressed; and these signs of comfort increased daily as the 
season advanced.
"The old man, leaning on his son, walked each day at noon, when it did not 
rain, as I found it was called when the heavens poured forth its waters. This 
frequently took place; but a high wind quickly dried the earth, and the season 
became far more pleasant than it had been.
"My mode of life in my hovel was uniform. During the morning, I attended the 
motions of the cottagers; and when they were dispersed in various occupations, 
I slept: the remainder of the day was spent in observing my friends. When they 
had retired to rest, if there was any moon, or the night was starlit, I went 
into the woods, and collected my own food and fuel for the cottage. When I 
returned, as often as it was necessary, I cleared their path from the snow, 
and performed those offices that I had seen done by Felix. I afterwards found 
that these labours, performed by an invisible hand, greatly astonished them; 
and once or twice I heard them, on these occasions, utter the words good 
spirit, wonderful; but I did not then understand the signification of these 
terms.
"My thoughts now became more active, and I longed to discover the motives and 
feelings of these lovely creatures; I was inquisitive to know why Felix 
appeared so miserable, and Agatha so sad. I thought (foolish wretch!) that it 
might be in my power to restore happiness to these deserving people. When I 
slept, or was absent, the forms of the venerable blind father, the gentle 
Agatha, and the excellent Felix, flitted before me. I looked upon them as 
superior beings, who would be the arbiters of my future destiny. I formed in 
my imagination a thousand pictures of presenting myself to them, and their 
reception of me. I imagined that they would be disgusted, until, by my gentle 
demeanour and conciliating words, I should first win their favour, and 
afterwards their love.
"These thoughts exhilarated me, and led me to apply with fresh ardour to the 
acquiring the art of language. My organs were indeed harsh, but supple; and 
although my voice was very unlike the soft music of their tones, yet I 
pronounced such words as I understood with tolerable ease. It was as the ass 
and the lapdog; yet surely the gentle ass whose intentions were affectionate, 
although his manners were rude, deserved better treatment than blows and 
execration.
"The pleasant showers and genial warmth of spring greatly altered the aspect 
of the earth. Men, who before this change seemed to have been hid in caves, 
dispersed themselves, and were employed in various arts of cultivation. The 
birds sang in more cheerful notes, and the leaves began to bud forth on the 
trees. Happy, happy earth! fit habitation for gods, which, so short a time 
before, was bleak, damp, and unwholesome. My spirits were elevated by the 
enchanting appearance of nature; the past was blotted from my memory, the 
present was tranquil, and the future gilded by bright rays of hope, and 
anticipations of joy.


Chapter 13

"I now hasten to the more moving part of my story. I shall relate events, that 
impressed me with feelings which, from what I had been, have made me what I am.
"Spring advanced rapidly; the weather became fine, and the skies cloudless. It 
surprised me, that what before was desert and gloomy should now bloom with the 
most beautiful flowers and verdure. My senses were gratified and refreshed by 
a thousand scents of delight, and a thousand sights of beauty.
"It was on one of these days, when my cottagers periodically rested from 
labour -the old man played on his guitar, and the children listened to him 
-that I observed the countenance of Felix was melancholy beyond expression; he 
sighed frequently; and once his father paused in his music, and I conjectured 
by his manner that he enquired the cause of his son's sorrow. Felix replied in 
a cheerful accent, and the old man was recommencing his music, when some one 
tapped at the door.
"It was a lady on horseback, accompanied by a countryman as a guide. The lady 
was dressed in a dark suit and covered with a thick black veil. Agatha asked a 
question; to which the stranger only replied by pronouncing, in a sweet 
accent, the name of Felix. Her voice was musical, but unlike that of either of 
my friends. On hearing this word, Felix came up hastily to the lady; who, when 
she saw him, threw up her veil, and I beheld a countenance of angelic beauty 
and expression. Her hair of a shining raven black, and curiously braided; her 
eyes were dark, but gentle, although animated; her features of a regular 
proportion, and her complexion wondrously fair, each cheek tinged with a 
lovely pink.
"Felix seemed ravished with delight when he saw her, every trait of sorrow 
vanished from his face, and it instantly expressed a degree of ecstatic joy, 
of which I could hardly have believed it capable; his eyes sparkled, as his 
cheek flushed with pleasure; and at that moment I thought him as beautiful as 
the stranger. She appeared affected by different feelings; wiping a few tears 
from her lovely eyes, she held out her hand to Felix, who kissed it 
rapturously, and called her, as well as I could distinguish, his sweet 
Arabian. She did not appear to understand him, but smiled. He assisted her to 
dismount, and dismissing her guide, conducted her into the cottage. Some 
conversation took place between him and his father; and the young stranger 
knelt at the old man's feet, and would have kissed his hand, but he raised 
her, and embraced her affectionately.
"I soon perceived, that although the stranger uttered articulate sounds, and 
appeared to have a language of her own, she was neither understood by, nor 
herself understood, the cottagers. They made many signs which I did not 
comprehend; but I saw that her presence diffused gladness through the cottage, 
dispelling their sorrow as the sun dissipates the morning mists. Felix seemed 
peculiarly happy, and with smiles of delight welcomed his Arabian. Agatha, the 
ever-gentle Agatha, kissed the hands of the lovely stranger; and, pointing to 
her brother, made signs which appeared to me to mean that he had been 
sorrowful until she came. Some hours passed thus, while they, by their 
countenances, expressed joy, the cause of which I did not comprehend. 
Presently I found, by the frequent recurrence of some sound which the stranger 
repeated after them, that she was endeavouring to learn their language; and 
the idea instantly occurred to me, that I should make use of the same 
instructions to the same end. The stranger learned about twenty words at the 
first lesson, most of them, indeed, were those which I had before understood, 
but I profited by the others.
"As night came on, Agatha and the Arabian retired early. When they separated, 
Felix kissed the hand of the stranger, and said, `Good night, sweet Safie.' He 
sat up much longer, conversing with his father; and, by the frequent 
repetition of her name, I conjectured that their lovely guest was the subject 
of their conversation. I ardently desired to understand them, and bent every 
faculty towards that purpose, but found it utterly impossible.
"The next morning Felix went out to his work; and, after the usual occupations 
of Agatha were finished the Arabian sat at the feet of the old man, and, 
taking his guitar, played some airs so entrancingly beautiful, that they at 
once drew tears of sorrow and delight from my eyes. She sang, and her voice 
flowed in a rich cadence, swelling or dying away, like a nightingale of the 
woods.
"When she had finished, she gave the guitar to Agatha, who at first declined 
it. She played a simple air, and her voice accompanied it in sweet accents, 
but unlike the wondrous strain of the stranger. The old man appeared 
enraptured, and said some words, which Agatha endeavoured to explain to Safie, 
and by which he appeared to wish to express that she bestowed on him the 
greatest delight by her music.
"The days now passed as peaceably as before, with the sole alteration, that 
joy had taken place of sadness in the countenances of my friends. Safie was 
always gay and happy; she and I improved rapidly in the knowledge of language, 
so that in two months I began to comprehend most of the words uttered by my 
protectors.
"In the meanwhile also the black ground was covered with herbage, and the 
green banks interspersed with innumerable flowers, sweet to the scent and the 
eyes, stars of pale radiance among the moonlight woods; the sun became warmer, 
the nights clear and balmy; and my nocturnal rambles were an extreme pleasure 
to me, although they were considerably shortened by the late setting and early 
rising of the sun; for I never ventured abroad during daylight, fearful of 
meeting with the same treatment I had formerly endured in the first village 
which I entered.
"My days were spent in close attention, that I might more speedily master the 
language; and I may boast that I improved more rapidly than the Arabian, who 
understood very little, and conversed in broken accents, whilst I comprehended 
and could imitate almost every word that was spoken.
"While I improved in speech, I also learned the science of letters, as it was 
taught to the stranger; and this opened before me a wide field for wonder and 
delight.
"The book from which Felix instructed Safie was Volney's Ruins of Empires. I 
should not have understood the purport of this book, had not Felix, in reading 
it, given very minute explanations. He had chosen this work, he said, because 
the declamatory style was framed in imitation of the eastern authors. Through 
this work I obtained a cursory knowledge of history, and a view of the several 
empires at present existing in the world; it gave me an insight into the 
manners, governments, and religions of the different nations of the earth. I 
heard of the slothful Asiatics; of the stupendous genius and mental activity 
of the Grecians; of the wars and wonderful virtue of the early Romans -of 
their subsequent degenerating -of the decline of that mighty empire; of 
chivalry, Christianity, and kings. I heard of the discovery of the American 
hemisphere, and wept with Safie over the hapless fate of its original 
inhabitants.
"These wonderful narrations inspired me with strange feelings. Was man, 
indeed, at once so powerful, so virtuous, and magnificent, yet so vicious and 
base? He appeared at one time a mere scion of the evil principle, and at 
another, as all that can be conceived of noble and godlike. To be a great and 
virtuous man appeared the highest honour that can befall a sensitive being; to 
be base and vicious, as many on record have been, appeared the lowest 
degradation, a condition more abject than that of the blind mole or harmless 
worm. For a long time I could not conceive how one man could go forth to 
murder his fellow, or even why there were laws and governments; but when I 
heard details of vice and bloodshed, my wonder ceased, and I turned away with 
disgust and loathing.
"Every conversation of the cottagers now opened new wonders to me. While I 
listened to the instructions which Felix bestowed upon the Arabian, the 
strange system of human society was explained to me. I heard of the division 
of property, of immense wealth and squalid poverty; of rank, descent, and 
noble blood.
"The words induced me to turn towards myself. I learned that the possessions 
most esteemed by your fellow-creatures were, high and unsullied descent united 
with riches. A man might be respected with only one of these advantages; but, 
without either, he was considered, except in very rare instances, as a 
vagabond and a slave, doomed to waste his powers for the profits of the chosen 
few! And what was I? Of my creation and creator I was absolutely ignorant; but 
I knew that I possessed no money, no friends, no kind of property. I was, 
besides, endued with a figure hideously deformed and loathsome; I was not even 
of the same nature as man. I was more agile than they, and could subsist upon 
coarser diet; I bore the extremes of heat and cold with less injury to my 
frame; my stature far exceeded theirs. When I looked around, I saw and heard 
of none like me. Was I then a monster, a blot upon the earth, from which all 
men fled, and whom all men disowned?
"I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted upon me: 
I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with knowledge. Oh, that I 
had for ever remained in my native wood, nor known nor felt beyond the 
sensations of hunger, thirst, and heat!
"Of what a strange nature is knowledge! It clings to the mind, when it has 
once seized on it, like a lichen on the rock. I wished sometimes to shake off 
all thought and feeling; but I learned that there was but one means to 
overcome the sensation of pain, and that was death -a state which I feared yet 
did not understand. I admired virtue and good feelings, and loved the gentle 
manners and amiable qualities of my cottagers; but I was shut out from 
intercourse with them, except through means which I obtained by stealth, when 
I was unseen and unknown, and which rather increased than satisfied the desire 
I had of becoming one among my fellows. The gentle words of Agatha, and the 
animated smiles of the charming Arabian, were not for me. The mild 
exhortations of the old man, and the lively conversation of the loved Felix, 
were not for me. Miserable, unhappy wretch!
"Other lessons were impressed upon me even more deeply. I heard of the 
difference of sexes; and the birth and growth of children; how the father 
doted on the smiles of the infant, and the lively sallies of the older child; 
how all the life and cares of the mother were wrapped up in the precious 
charge; how the mind of youth expanded and gained knowledge; of brother, 
sister, and all the various relationships which bind one human being to 
another in mutual bonds.
"But where were my friends and relations? No father had watched my infant 
days, no mother had blessed me with smiles and caresses; or if they had, all 
my past life was now a blot, a blind vacancy in which I distinguished nothing. 
From my earliest remembrance I had been as I then was in height and 
proportion. I had never yet seen a being resembling me, or who claimed any 
intercourse with me. What was I? The question again recurred, to be answered 
only with groans.
"I will soon explain to what these feelings tended; but allow me now to return 
to the cottagers, whose story excited in me such various feelings of 
indignation, delight, and wonder, but which all terminated in additional love 
and reverence for my protectors (for so I loved, in an innocent, half painful 
self-deceit, to call them).


Chapter 14

"Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends. It was one 
which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding as it did 
a number of circumstances, each interesting and wonderful to one so utterly 
inexperienced as I was.
"The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended from a good family in 
France, where he had lived for many years in affluence, respected by his 
superiors, and beloved by his equals. His son was bred in the service of his 
country; and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the highest distinction. A few 
months before my arrival, they had lived in a large and luxurious city, called 
Paris, surrounded by friends, and possessed of every enjoyment which virtue, 
refinement of intellect, or taste, accompanied by a moderate fortune, could 
afford.
"The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin. He was a Turkish 
merchant, and had inhabited Paris for many years, when, for some reason which 
I could not learn, he became obnoxious to the government. He was seized and 
cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from Constantinople to join 
him. He was tried, and condemned to death. The injustice of his sentence was 
very flagrant; all Paris was indignant; and it was judged that his religion 
and wealth, rather than the crime alleged against him, had been the cause of 
his condemnation.
"Felix had accidentally been present at the trial; his horror and indignation 
were uncontrollable, when he heard the decision of the court. He made, at that 
moment, a solemn vow to deliver him, and then looked around for the means. 
After many fruitless attempts to gain admittance to the prison, he found a 
strongly grated window in an unguarded part of the building, which lighted the 
dungeon of the unfortunate Mohammedan; who, loaded with chains, waited in 
despair the execution of the barbarous sentence. Felix visited the grate at 
night, and made known to the prisoner his intentions in his favour. The Turk, 
amazed and delighted, endeavoured to kindle the zeal of his deliverer by 
promises of reward and wealth. Felix rejected his offers with contempt; yet 
when he saw the lovely Safie, who was allowed to visit her father, and who, by 
her gestures, expressed her lively gratitude, the youth could not help owning 
to his own mind, that the captive possessed a treasure which would fully 
reward his toil and hazard.
"The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made on the 
heart of Felix, and endeavoured to secure him more entirely in his interests 
by the promise of her hand in marriage, so soon as he should be conveyed to a 
place of safety. Felix was too delicate to accept this offer; yet he looked 
forward to the probability of the event as to the consummation of his happiness.
"During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward for the 
escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several letters that 
he received from this lovely girl, who found means to express her thoughts in 
the language of her lover by the aid of an old man, a servant of her father, 
who understood French. She thanked him in the most ardent terms for his 
intended services towards her parent; and at the same time she gently deplored 
her own fate.
"I have copies of these letters; for I found means, during my residence in the 
hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters were often in the 
hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I depart, I will give them to you, they will 
prove the truth of my tale; but at present, as the sun is already far 
declined, I shall only have time to repeat the substance of them to you.
"Safie related, that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a slave 
by the Turks; recommended by her beauty, she had won the heart of the father 
of Safie, who married her. The young girl spoke in high and enthusiastic terms 
of her mother, who, born in freedom, spurned the bondage to which she was now 
reduced. She instructed her daughter in the tenets of her religion, and taught 
her to aspire to higher powers of intellect, and an independence of spirit, 
forbidden to the female followers of Mohammed. This lady died; but her lessons 
were indelibly impressed on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of 
again returning to Asia, and being immured within the walls of a harem, 
allowed only to occupy herself with infantile amusements, ill suited to the 
temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble emulation for 
virtue. The prospect of marrying a Christian, and remaining in a country where 
women were allowed to take a rank in society, was enchanting to her.
"The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed; but, on the night previous 
to it, he quitted his prison, and before morning was distant many leagues from 
Paris. Felix had procured passports in the name of his father, sister, and 
himself. He had previously communicated his plan to the former, who aided the 
deceit by quitting his house, under the pretence of a journey, and concealed 
himself, with his daughter, in an obscure part of Paris.
"Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons, and across Mont Cenis 
to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to wait a favourable opportunity of 
passing into some part of the Turkish dominions.
"Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his departure, 
before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she should be united to 
his deliverer; and Felix remained with them in expectation of that event; and 
in the mean time he enjoyed the society of the Arabian, who exhibited towards 
him the simplest and tenderest affection. They conversed with one another 
through the means of an interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of 
looks; and Safie sang to him the divine airs of her native country.
"The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place, and encouraged the hopes of the 
youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other plans. He loathed 
the idea that his daughter should be united to a Christian; but he feared the 
resentment of Felix, if he should appear lukewarm; for he knew that he was 
still in the power of his deliverer, if he should choose to betray him to the 
Italian state which they inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which he 
should be enabled to prolong the deceit until it might be no longer necessary, 
and secretly to take his daughter with him when he departed. His plans were 
facilitated by the news which arrived from Paris.
"The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their victim, 
and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer. The plot of Felix was 
quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were thrown into prison. The news 
reached Felix, and roused him from his dream of pleasure. His blind and aged 
father, and his gentle sister, lay in a noisome dungeon, while he enjoyed the 
free air, and the society of her whom he loved. This idea was torture to him. 
He quickly arranged with the Turk, that if the latter should find a favourable 
opportunity for escape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain 
as a boarder at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian, 
he hastened to Paris, and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the law, 
hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.
"He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months before the trial 
took place; the result of which deprived them of their fortune, and condemned 
them to a perpetual exile from their native country.
"They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I discovered 
them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for whom he and his family 
endured such unheard-of oppression, on discovering that his deliverer was thus 
reduced to poverty and ruin, became a traitor to good feeling and honour, and 
had quitted Italy with his daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of 
money, to aid him, as he said, in some plan of future maintenance.
"Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix, and rendered him, 
when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could have endured 
poverty; and while this distress had been the meed of his virtue, he gloried 
in it: but the ingratitude of the Turk, and the loss of his beloved Safie, 
were misfortunes more bitter and irreparable. The arrival of the Arabian now 
infused new life into his soul.
"When the news reached Leghorn, that Felix was deprived of his wealth and 
rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her lover, but 
to prepare to return to her native country. The generous nature of Safie was 
outraged by this command; she attempted to expostulate with her father, but he 
left her angrily, reiterating his tyrannical mandate.
"A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment, and told her 
hastily, that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn had been 
divulged, and that he should speedily be delivered up to the French 
government; he had, consequently, hired a vessel to convey him to 
Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He intended to 
leave his daughter under the care of a confidential servant, to follow at her 
leisure with the greater part of his property, which had not yet arrived at 
Leghorn.
"When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it would 
become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence in Turkey was abhorrent to 
her; her religion and her feelings were alike adverse to it. By some papers of 
her father, which fell into her hands, she heard of the exile of her lover, 
and learnt the name of the spot where he then resided. She hesitated some 
time, but at length she formed her determination. Taking with her some jewels 
that belonged to her, and a sum of money, she quitted Italy with an attendant, 
a native of Leghorn, but who understood the common language of Turkey, and 
departed for Germany.
"She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage of De 
Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her with the most 
devoted affection; but the poor girl died, and the Arabian was left alone, 
unacquainted with the language of the country, and utterly ignorant of the 
customs of the world. She fell, however, into good hands. The Italian had 
mentioned the name of the spot for which they were bound; and, after her 
death, the woman of the house in which they had lived took care that Safie 
should arrive in safety at the cottage of her lover.


Chapter 15

"Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply. I 
learned, from the views of social life which it developed, to admire their 
virtues, and to deprecate the vices of mankind.
"As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil; benevolence and generosity were 
ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to become an actor in the 
busy scene where so many admirable qualities were called forth and displayed. 
But, in giving an account of the progress of my intellect, I must not omit a 
circumstance which occurred in the beginning of the month of August of the 
same year.
"One night, during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood, where I 
collected my own food, and brought home firing for my protectors, I found on 
the ground a leathern portmanteau, containing several articles of dress and 
some books. I eagerly seized the prize, and returned with it to my hovel. 
Fortunately the books were written in the language, the elements of which I 
had acquired at the cottage; they consisted of Paradise Lost, a volume of 
Plutarch's Lives, and the Sorrows of Werter. The possession of these treasures 
gave me extreme delight; I now continually studied and exercised my mind upon 
these histories, whilst my friends were employed in their ordinary occupations.
"I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They produced in me 
an infinity of new images and feelings, that sometimes raised me to ecstasy, 
but more frequently sunk me into the lowest dejection. In the Sorrows of 
Werter, besides the interest of its simple and affecting story, so many 
opinions are canvassed, and so many lights thrown upon what had hitherto been 
to me obscure subjects, that I found in it a never-ending source of 
speculation and astonishment. The gentle and domestic manners it described, 
combined with lofty sentiments and feelings, which had for their object 
something out of self, accorded well with my experience among my protectors, 
and with the wants which were for ever alive in my own bosom. But I thought 
Werter himself a more divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his 
character contained no pretension, but it sunk deep. The disquisitions upon 
death and suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not pretend to 
enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions of the 
hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely understanding it.
"As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings and 
condition. I found myself similar, yet at the same time strangely unlike to 
the beings concerning whom I read, and to whose conversation I was a listener. 
I sympathised with, and partly understood them, but I was unformed in mind; I 
was dependent on none, and related to none. `The path of my departure was 
free;' and there was none to lament my annihilation. My person was hideous, 
and my stature gigantic: what did this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did 
I come? What was my destination? These questions continually recurred, but I 
was unable to solve them.
"The volume of Plutarch's Lives, which I possessed, contained the histories of 
the first founders of the ancient republics. This book had a far different 
effect upon me from the Sorrows of Werter. I learned from Werter's 
imaginations despondency and gloom: but Plutarch taught me high thoughts; he 
elevated me above the wretched sphere of my own reflections, to admire and 
love the heroes of past ages. Many things I read surpassed my understanding 
and experience. I had a very confused knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of 
country, mighty rivers, and boundless seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted 
with towns, and large assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had 
been the only school in which I had studied human nature; but this book 
developed new and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned in public 
affairs, governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest ardour for 
virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as far as I understood the 
significance of those terms, relative as they were, as I applied them, to 
pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of course led to 
admire peaceable law-givers, Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus, in preference to 
Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my protectors caused these 
impressions to take a firm hold on my mind; perhaps, if my first introduction 
to humanity had been made by a young soldier, burning for glory and slaughter, 
I should have been imbued with different sensations.
"But Paradise Lost excited different and far deeper emotions. I read it, as I 
had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as a true history. 
It moved every feeling of wonder and awe, that the picture of an omnipotent 
God warring with his creatures was capable of exciting. I often referred the 
several situations, as their similarity struck me, to my own. Like Adam, I was 
apparently united by no link to any other being in existence; but his state 
was far different from mine in every other respect. He had come forth from the 
hands of God a perfect creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial 
care of his Creator; he was allowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge 
from, beings of a superior nature: but I was wretched, helpless, and alone. 
Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition; for often, 
like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter gall of envy 
rose within me.
"Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings. Soon after my 
arrival in the hovel, I discovered some papers in the pocket of the dress 
which I had taken from your laboratory. At first I had neglected them; but now 
that I was able to decipher the characters in which they were written, I began 
to study them with diligence. It was your journal of the four months that 
preceded my creation. You minutely described in these papers every step you 
took in the progress of your work; this history was mingled with accounts of 
domestic occurrences. You, doubtless, recollect these papers. Here they are. 
Every thing is related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin; 
the whole detail of that series of disgusting circumstances which produced it, 
is set in view; the minutest description of my odious and loathsome person is 
given, in language which painted your own horrors, and rendered mine 
indelible. I sickened as I read. `Hateful day when I received life!' I 
exclaimed in agony. `Accursed creator! Why did you form a monster so hideous 
that even you turned from me in disgust? God, in pity, made man beautiful and 
alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy type of yours, more 
horrid even from the very resemblance. Satan had his companions, 
fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am solitary and abhorred.'
"These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude; but when 
I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and benevolent 
dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should become acquainted with 
my admiration of their virtues, they would compassionate me, and overlook my 
personal deformity. Could they turn from their door one, however monstrous, 
who solicited their compassion and friendship? I resolved, at least, not to 
despair, but in every way to fit myself for an interview with them which would 
decide my fate. I postponed this attempt for some months longer; for the 
importance attached to its success inspired me with a dread lest I should 
fail. Besides, I found that my understanding improved so much with every day's 
experience, that I was unwilling to commence this undertaking until a few more 
months should have added to my sagacity.
"Several changes, in the mean time, took place in the cottage. The presence of 
Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants; and I also found that a 
greater degree of plenty reigned there. Felix and Agatha spent more time in 
amusement and conversation, and were assisted in their labours by servants. 
They did not appear rich, but they were contented and happy; their feelings 
were serene and peaceful, while mine became every day more tumultuous. 
Increase of knowledge only discovered to me more clearly what a wretched 
outcast I was. I cherished hope, it is true; but it vanished, when I beheld my 
person reflected in water, or my shadow in the moonshine, even as that frail 
image and that inconstant shade.
"I endeavoured to crush these fears, and to fortify myself for the trial which 
in a few months I resolved to undergo; and some times I allowed my thoughts, 
unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and dared to fancy 
amiable and lovely creatures sympathising with my feelings, and cheering my 
gloom; their angelic countenances breathed smiles of consolation. But it was 
all a dream; no Eve soothed my sorrows, nor shared my thoughts; I was alone. I 
remembered Adam's supplication to his Creator. But where was mine? He had 
abandoned me; and, in the bitterness of my heart, I cursed him.
"Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay and 
fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it had worn when 
I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not heed the bleakness 
of the weather; I was better fitted by my conformation for the endurance of 
cold than heat. But my chief delights were the sight of the flowers, the 
birds, and all the gay apparel of summer; when those deserted me, I turned 
with more attention towards the cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased 
by the absence of summer. They loved, and sympathised with one another; and 
their joys, depending on each other, were not interrupted by the casualties 
that took place around them. The more I saw of them, the greater became my 
desire to claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be known 
and loved by these amiable creatures: to see their sweet looks directed 
towards me with affection, was the utmost limit of my ambition. I dared not 
think that they would turn them from me with disdain and horror. The poor that 
stopped at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is true, for greater 
treasures than a little food or rest: I required kindness and sympathy; but I 
did not believe myself utterly unworthy of it.
"The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken place 
since I awoke into life. My attention, at this time, was solely directed 
towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my protectors. I 
revolved many projects; but that on which I finally fixed was, to enter the 
dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had sagacity enough to 
discover, that the unnatural hideousness of my person was the chief object of 
horror with those who had formerly beheld me. My voice, although harsh, had 
nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore, that if , in the absence of his 
children, I could gain the good-will and mediation of the old De Lacey, I 
might, by his means, be tolerated by my younger protectors.
"One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground, and 
diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and Felix 
departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own desire, was left 
alone in the cottage. When his children had departed, he took up his guitar, 
and played several mournful but sweet airs, more sweet and mournful than I had 
ever heard him play before. At first his countenance was illuminated with 
pleasure, but, as he continued, thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at 
length, laying aside the instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection. "My heart 
beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which would decide my 
hopes, or realise my fears. The servants were gone to a neighbouring fair. All 
was silent in and around the cottage: it was an excellent opportunity; yet, 
when I proceeded to execute my plan, my limbs failed me, and I sank to the 
ground. Again I rose; and, exerting all the firmness of which I was master, 
removed the planks which I had placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. 
The fresh air revived me, and, with renewed determination, I approached the 
door of their cottage.
"I knocked. `Who is there?' said the old man -`Come in.'
"I entered; `Pardon this intrusion,' said I: `I am a traveller in want of a 
little rest; you would greatly oblige me, if you would allow me to remain a 
few minutes before the fire.'
" `Enter,' said De Lacey; `and I will try in what manner I can relieve your 
wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home, and, as I am blind, I am 
afraid I shall find it difficult to procure food for you.'
" `Do not trouble yourself, my kind host, I have food; it is warmth and rest 
only that I need.'
"I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was precious to 
me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence the interview; when 
the old man addressed me -
" `By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman; -are you 
French?'
" `No; but I was educated by a French family, and understand that language 
only. I am now going to claim the protection of some friends, whom I sincerely 
love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.'
" `Are they Germans?'
" `No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an unfortunate and 
deserted creature; I look around, and I have no relation or friend upon earth. 
These amiable people to whom I go have never seen me, and know little of me. I 
am full of fears; for if I fail there, I am an outcast in the world for ever.'
" `Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate; but the 
hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full of 
brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes; and if these 
friends are good and amaible, do not despair.'
" `They are kind -they are the most excellent creatures in the world; but, 
unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good dispositions; my 
life has been hitherto harmless, and in some degree beneficial; but a fatal 
prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they ought to see a feeling and kind 
friend, they behold only a detestable monster.'
" `That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot you 
undeceive them?'
" `I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account that I feel so 
many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I have, unknown to 
them, been for many months in the habits of daily kindness towards them; but 
they believe that I wish to injure them, and it is that prejudice which I wish 
to overcome.'
" `Where do these friends reside?'
" `Near this spot.'
"The old man paused, and then continued, `If you will unreservedly confide to 
me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in undeceiving them. 
I am blind, and cannot judge of your countenance, but there is something in 
your words, which persuades me that you are sincere. I am poor, and an exile; 
but it will afford me true pleasure to be in any way serviceable to a human 
creature.'
" `Excellent man! I thank you, and accept your generous offer. You raise me 
from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid, I shall not be 
driven from the society and sympathy of your fellow-creatures.'
" `Heaven forbid! even if you were really criminal; for that can only drive 
you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am unfortunate; I 
and my family have been condemned, although innocent: judge, therefore, if I 
do not feel for your misfortunes.'
" `How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? From your lips first have 
I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall be for ever 
grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success with those friends 
whom I am on the point of meeting.'
" `May I know the names and residence of those friends?'
"I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to rob me 
of, or bestow happiness on me for ever. I struggled vainly for firmness 
sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my remaining strength; 
I sank on the chair, and sobbed aloud. At that moment I heard the steps of my 
younger protectors. I had not a moment to lose; but, seizing the hand of the 
old man I cried, `Now is the time! -save and protect me! You and your family 
are the friends whom I seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!'
" `Great God!' exclaimed the old man, `who are you?'
"At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and Agatha 
entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on beholding me? 
Agatha fainted; and Safie, unable to attend to her friend, rushed out of the 
cottage. Felix darted forward, and with supernatural force tore me from his 
father, to whose knees I clung: in a transport of fury, he dashed me to the 
ground, and struck me violently with a stick. I could have torn him limb from 
limb, as the lion rends the antelope. But my heart sunk within me as with 
bitter sickness, and I refrained. I saw him on the point of repeating his 
blow, when, overcome by pain and anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the 
general tumult escaped unperceived to my hovel.


Chapter 16

"Cursed, cursed creator! Why did I live? Why, in that instant, did I not 
extinguish the spark of existence which you had so wantonly bestowed? I know 
not; despair had not yet taken possession of me; my feelings were those of 
rage and revenge. I could with pleasure have destroyed the cottage and its 
inhabitants, and have glutted myself with their shrieks and misery.
"When night came, I quitted my retreat, and wandered in the wood; and now, no 
longer restrained by the fear of discovery, I gave vent to my anguish in 
fearful howlings. I was like a wild beast that had broken the toils; 
destroying the objects that obstructed me, and ranging through the wood with a 
stag-like swiftness. O! what a miserable night I passed! the cold stars shone 
in mockery, and the bare trees waved their branches above me: now and then the 
sweet voice of a bird burst forth amidst the universal stillness. All, save I, 
were at rest or in enjoyment: I, like the arch-fiend, bore a hell within me; 
and, finding myself unsympathised with, wished to tear up the trees, spread 
havoc and destruction around me, and then to have sat down and enjoyed the ruin.
"But this was a luxury of sensation that could not endure; I became fatigued 
with excess of bodily exertion, and sank on the damp grass in the sick 
impotence of despair. There was none among the myriads of men that existed who 
would pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness towards my enemies? No: 
from that moment I declared everlasting war against the species, and, more 
than all, against him who had formed me, and sent me forth to this 
insupportable misery.
"The sun rose; I heard the voices of men, and knew that it was impossible to 
return to my retreat during that day. Accordingly I hid myself in some thick 
underwood, determining to devote the ensuing hours to reflection on my 
situation.
"The pleasant sunshine, and the pure air of day, restored me to some degree of 
tranquillity; and when I considered what had passed at the cottage, I could 
not help believing that I had been too hasty in my conclusions. I had 
certainly acted imprudently. It was apparent that my conversation had 
interested the father in my behalf, and I was a fool in having exposed my 
person to the horror of his children. I ought to have familiarised the old De 
Lacey to me, and by degrees to have discovered myself to the rest of his 
family, when they should have been prepared for my approach. But I did not 
believe my errors to be irretrievable; and, after much consideration, I 
resolved to return to the cottage, seek the old man, and by my representations 
win him to my party.
"These thoughts calmed me, and in the afternoon I sank into a profound sleep; 
but the fever of my blood did not allow me to be visited by peaceful dreams. 
The horrible scene of the preceding day was for ever acting before my eyes; 
the females were flying, and the enraged Felix tearing me from his father's 
feet. I awoke exhausted; and, finding that it was already night, I crept forth 
from my hiding-place, and went in search of food.
"When my hunger was appeased, I directed my steps towards the well-known path 
that conducted to the cottage. All there was at peace. I crept into my hovel, 
and remained in silent expectation of the accustomed hour when the family 
arose. That hour passed, the sun mounted high in the heavens, but the 
cottagers did not appear. I trembled violently, apprehending some dreadful 
misfortune. The inside of the cottage was dark, and I heard no motion; I 
cannot describe the agony of this suspense.
"Presently two countrymen passed by; but, pausing near the cottage, they 
entered into conversation, using violent gesticulations; but I did not 
understand what they said, as they spoke the language of the country, which 
differed from that of my protectors. Soon after, however, Felix approached 
with another man: I was surprised, as I knew that he had not quitted the 
cottage that morning, and waited anxiously to discover, from his discourse, 
the meaning of these unusual appearances.
" `Do you consider,' said his companion to him, `that you will be obliged to 
pay three months' rent, and to lose the produce of your garden? I do not wish 
to take any unfair advantage, and I beg therefore that you will take some days 
to consider of your determination.'
" `It is utterly useless,' replied Felix; `we can never again inhabit your 
cottage. The life of my father is in the greatest danger, owing to the 
dreadful circumstance that I have related. My wife and my sister will never 
recover their horror. I entreat you not to reason with me any more. Take 
possession of your tenement, and let me fly from this place.'
"Felix trembled violently as he said this. He and his companion entered the 
cottage, in which they remained for a few minutes, and then departed. I never 
saw any of the family of De Lacey more.
"I continued for the remainder of the day in my hovel in a state of utter and 
stupid despair. My protectors had departed, and had broken the only link that 
held me to the world. For the first time the feelings of revenge and hatred 
filled my bosom, and I did not strive to control them; but, allowing myself to 
be borne away by the stream, I bent my mind towards injury and death. When I 
thought of my friends, of the mild voice of De Lacey, the gentle eyes of 
Agatha, and the exquisite beauty of the Arabian, these thoughts vanished, and 
a gush of tears somewhat soothed me. But again, when I reflected that they had 
spurned and deserted me, anger returned, a rage of anger; and, unable to 
injure any thing human, I turned my fury towards inanimate objects. As night 
advanced, I placed a variety of combustibles around the cottage; and, after 
having destroyed every vestige of cultivation in the garden, I waited with 
forced impatience until the moon had sunk to commence my operations.
"As the night advanced, a fierce wind arose from the woods, and quickly 
dispersed the clouds that had loitered in the heavens: the blast tore along 
like a mighty avalanche, and produced a kind of insanity in my spirits, that 
burst all bounds of reason and reflection. I lighted the dry branch of a tree, 
and danced with fury around the devoted cottage, my eyes still fixed on the 
western horizon, the edge of which the moon nearly touched. A part of its orb 
was at length hid, and I waved my brand; it sunk, and, with a loud scream, I 
fired the straw, and heath, and bushes, which I had collected. The wind fanned 
the fire, and the cottage was quickly enveloped by the flames, which clung to 
it, and licked it with their forked and destroying tongues.
"As soon as I was convinced that no assistance could save any part of the 
habitation, I quitted the scene, and sought for refuge in the woods.
"And now, with the world before me, whither should I bend my steps? I resolved 
to fly far from the scene of my misfortunes; but to me, hated and despised, 
every country must be equally horrible. At length the thought of you crossed 
my mind. I learned from your papers that you were my father, my creator; and 
to whom could I apply with more fitness than to him who had given me life? 
Among the lessons that Felix had bestowed upon Safie, geography had not been 
omitted: I had learned from these the relative situations of the different 
countries of the earth. You had mentioned Geneva as the name of your native 
town; and towards this place I resolved to proceed.
"But how was I to direct myself? I knew that I must travel in a south-westerly 
direction to reach my destination; but the sun was my only guide. I did not 
know the names of the towns that I was to pass through, nor could I ask 
information from a single human being; but I did not despair. From you only 
could I hope for succour, although towards you I felt no sentiment but that of 
hatred. Unfeeling, heartless creator! you had endowed me with perceptions and 
passions, and then cast me abroad an object for the scorn and horror of 
mankind. But on you only had I any claim for pity and redress, and from you I 
determined to seek that justice which I vainly attempted to gain from any 
other being that wore the human form.
"My travels were long, and the sufferings I endured intense. It was late in 
autumn when I quitted the district where I had so long resided. I travelled 
only at night, fearful of encountering the visage of a human being. Nature 
decayed around me, and the sun became heatless; rain and snow poured around 
me; mighty rivers were frozen; the surface of the earth was hard and chill, 
and bare, and I found no shelter. Oh, earth! how often did I imprecate curses 
on the cause of my being! The mildness of my nature had fled, and all within 
me was turned to gall and bitterness. The nearer I approached to your 
habitation, the more deeply did I feel the spirit of revenge enkindled in my 
heart. Snow fell, and the waters were hardened; but I rested not. A few 
incidents now and then directed me, and I possessed a map of the country; but 
I often wandered wide from my path. The agony of my feelings allowed me no 
respite: no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could not extract 
its food; but a circumstance that happened when I arrived on the confines of 
Switzerland, when the sun had recovered its warmth, and the earth again began 
to look green, confirmed in an especial manner the bitterness and horror of my 
feelings.
"I generally rested during the day, and travelled only when I was secured by 
night from the view of man. One morning, however, finding that my path lay 
through a deep wood, I ventured to continue my journey after the sun had 
risen; the day, which was one of the first of spring, cheered even me by the 
loveliness of its sunshine and the balminess of the air. I felt emotions of 
gentleness and pleasure, that had long appeared dead, revive within me. Half 
surprised by the novelty of these sensations, I allowed myself to be borne 
away by them; and, forgetting my solitude and deformity, dared to be happy. 
Soft tears again bedewed my cheeks, and I even raised my humid eyes with 
thankfulness towards the blessed sun which bestowed such joy upon me.
"I continued to wind among the paths of the wood, until I came to its 
boundary, which was skirted by a deep and rapid river, into which many of the 
trees bent their branches, now budding with the fresh spring. Here I paused, 
not exactly knowing what path to pursue, when I heard the sound of voices, 
that induced me to conceal myself under the shade of a cypress. I was scarcely 
hid, when a young girl came running towards the spot where I was concealed, 
laughing, as if she ran from some one in sport. She continued her course along 
the precipitous sides of the river, when suddenly her foot slipped, and she 
fell into the rapid stream. I rushed from my hiding-place; and, with extreme 
labour from the force of the current, saved her, and dragged her to shore. She 
was senseless; and I endeavoured, by every means in my power, to restore 
animation, when I was suddenly interrupted by the approach of a rustic, who 
was probably the person from whom she had playfully fled. On seeing me, he 
darted towards me, and tearing the girl from my arms, hastened towards the 
deeper parts of the wood. I followed speedily, I hardly knew why; but when the 
man saw me draw near, he aimed a gun, which he carried, at my body, and fired. 
I sunk to the ground, and my injurer, with increased swiftness, escaped into 
the wood.
"This was then the reward of my benevolence! I had saved a human being from 
destruction, and, as a recompense, I now writhed under the miserable pain of a 
wound, which shattered the flesh and bone. The feelings of kindness and 
gentleness, which I had entertained but a few moments before, gave place to 
hellish rage and gnashing of teeth. Inflamed by pain, I vowed eternal hatred 
and vengeance to all mankind. But the agony of my wound overcame me; my pulses 
paused, and I fainted.
"For some weeks I led a miserable life in the woods, endeavouring to cure the 
wound which I had received. The ball had entered my shoulder, and I knew not 
whether it had remained there or passed through; at any rate I had no means of 
extracting it. My sufferings were augmented also by the oppressive sense of 
the injustice and ingratitude of their infliction. My daily vows rose for 
revenge -a deep and deadly revenge, such as would alone compensate for the 
outrages and anguish I had endured.
"After some weeks my wound healed, and I continued my journey. The labours I 
endured were no longer to be alleviated by the bright sun or gentle breezes of 
spring; all joy was but a mockery, which insulted my desolate state, and made 
me feel more painfully that I was not made for the enjoyment of pleasure.
"But my toils now drew near a close; and, in two months from this time, I 
reached the environs of Geneva.
"It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among the 
fields that surround it, to meditate in what manner I should apply to you. I 
was oppressed by fatigue and hunger, and far too unhappy to enjoy the gentle 
breezes of evening, or the prospect of the sun setting behind the stupendous 
mountains of Jura.
"At this time a slight sleep relieved me from the pain of reflection, which 
was disturbed by the approach of a beautiful child, who came running into the 
recess I had chosen, with all the sportiveness of infancy. Suddenly, as I 
gazed on him, an idea seized me, that this little creature was unprejudiced, 
and had lived too short a time to have imbibed a horror of deformity. If, 
therefore, I could seize him, and educate him as my companion and friend, I 
should not be so desolate in this peopled earth.
"Urged by this impulse, I seized on the boy as he passed, and drew him towards 
me. As soon as he beheld my form, he placed his hands before his eyes, and 
uttered a shrill scream: I drew his hand forcibly from his face, and said, 
`Child, what is the meaning of this? I do not intend to hurt you; listen to me.'
"He struggled violently. `Let me go,' he cried; `monster! ugly wretch! you 
wish to eat me, and tear me to pieces -You are an ogre -Let me go, or I will 
tell my papa.'
" `Boy, you will never see your father again; you must come with me.'
" `Hideous monster! let me go, My papa is a Syndic -he is M. Frankenstein -he 
will punish you. You dare not keep me.'
" `Frankenstein! you belong then to my enemy -to him towards whom I have sworn 
eternal revenge; you shall be my first victim.'
"The child still struggled, and loaded me with epithets which carried despair 
to my heart; I grasped his throat to silence him, and in a moment he lay dead 
at my feet.
"I gazed on my victim, and my heart swelled with exultation and hellish 
triumph: clapping my hands, I exclaimed, `I, too, can create desolation; my 
enemy is not invulnerable; this death will carry despair to him, and a 
thousand other miseries shall torment and destroy him.' "As I fixed my eyes on 
the child, I saw something glittering on his breast. I took it; it was a 
portrait of a most lovely woman. In spite of my malignity, it softened and 
attracted me. For a few moments I gazed with delight on her dark eyes, fringed 
by deep lashes, and her lovely lips; but presently my rage returned: I 
remembered that I was for ever deprived of the delights that such beautiful 
creatures could bestow; and that she whose resemblance I contemplated would, 
in regarding me, have changed that air of divine benignity to one expressive 
of disgust and affright.
"Can you wonder that such thoughts transported me with rage? I only wonder 
that at that moment, instead of venting my sensations in exclamations and 
agony, I did not rush among mankind, and perish in the attempt to destroy them.
"While I was overcome by these feelings, I left the spot where I had committed 
the murder, and seeking a more secluded hiding-place, I entered a barn which 
had appeared to me to be empty. A woman was sleeping on some straw; she was 
young: not indeed so beautiful as her whose portrait I held; but of an 
agreeable aspect, and blooming in the loveliness of youth and health. Here, I 
thought, is one of those whose joy-imparting smiles are bestowed on all but 
me. And then I bent over her, and whispered, `Awake, fairest, thy lover is 
near -he who would give his life but to obtain one look of affection from 
thine eyes: my beloved, awake!'
"The sleeper stirred; a thrill of terror ran through me. Should she indeed 
awake, and see me, and curse me, and denounce the murderer? Thus would she 
assuredly act, if her darkened eyes opened, and she beheld me. The thought was 
madness; it stirred the fiend within me -not I, but she shall suffer: the 
murder I have committed because I am for ever robbed of all that she could 
give me, she shall atone. The crime had its source in her: be hers the 
punishment!. Thanks to the lessons of Felix and the sanguinary laws of man, I 
had learned now to work mischief. I bent over her, and placed the portrait 
securely in one of the folds of her dress. She moved again, and I fled.
"For some days I haunted the spot where these scenes had taken place; 
sometimes wishing to see you, sometimes resolved to quit the world and its 
miseries for ever. At length I wandered towards these mountains, and have 
ranged through their immense recesses, consumed by a burning passion which you 
alone can gratify. We may not part until you have promised to comply with my 
requisition. I am alone, and miserable; man will not associate with me; but 
one as deformed and horrible as myself would not deny herself to me. My 
companion must be of the same species, and have the same defects. This being 
you must create."


Chapter 17

The being finished speaking, and fixed his looks upon me in expectation of a 
reply. But I was bewildered, perplexed, and unable to arrange my ideas 
sufficiently to understand the full extent of his proposition. He continued -
"You must create a female for me, with whom I can live in the interchange of 
those sympathies necessary for my being. This you alone can do; and I demand 
it of you as a right which you must not refuse to concede."
The latter part of his tale had kindled anew in me the anger that had died 
away while he narrated his peaceful life among the cottagers, and, as he said 
this, I could no longer suppress the rage that burned within me.
"I do refuse it," I replied; "and no torture shall ever extort a consent from 
me. You may render me the most miserable of men, but you shall never make me 
base in my own eyes. Shall I create another like yourself, whose joint 
wickedness might desolate the world? Begone! I have answered you; you may 
torture me, but I will never consent."
"You are in the wrong," replied the fiend; "and, instead of threatening, I am 
content to reason with you. I am malicious because I am miserable. Am I not 
shunned and hated by all mankind? You, my creator, would tear me to pieces, 
and triumph; remember that, and tell me why I should pity man more than he 
pities me? You would not call it murder, if you could precipitate me into one 
of those ice-rifts, and destroy my frame, the work of your own hands. Shall I 
respect man, when he condemns me? Let him live with me in the interchange of 
kindness; and, instead of injury, I would bestow every benefit upon him with 
tears of gratitude at his acceptance. But that cannot be; the human senses are 
insurmountable barriers to our union. Yet mine shall not be the submission of 
abject slavery. I will revenge my injuries: if I cannot inspire love, I will 
cause fear; and chiefly towards you my arch-enemy, because my creator, do I 
swear inextinguishable hatred. Have a care: I will work at your destruction, 
nor finish until I desolate your heart, so that you shall curse the hour of 
your birth."
A fiendish rage animated him as he said this; his face was wrinkled into 
contortions too horrible for human eyes to behold; but presently he calmed 
himself and proceeded -
"I intended to reason. This passion is detrimental to me; for you do not 
reflect that you are the cause of its excess. If any being felt emotions of 
benevolence towards me, I should return them an hundred and an hundred fold; 
for that one creature's sake, I would make peace with the whole kind! But I 
now indulge in dreams of bliss that cannot be realised. What I ask of you is 
reasonable and moderate; I demand a creature of another sex, but as hideous as 
myself; the gratification is small, but it is all that I can receive, and it 
shall content me. It is true, we shall be monsters, cut off from all the 
world; but on that account we shall be more attached to one another. Our lives 
will not be happy, but they will be harmless, and free from the misery I now 
feel. Oh! my creator, make me happy; let me feel gratitude towards you for one 
benefit! Let me see that I excite the sympathy of some existing thing; do not 
deny me my request!"
I was moved. I shuddered when I thought of the possible consequences of my 
consent; but I felt that there was some justice in his argument. His tale, and 
the feelings he now expressed, proved him to be a creature of fine sensations; 
and did I not, as his maker, owe him all the portion of happiness that it was 
in my power to bestow? He saw my change of feeling, and continued -
"If you consent, neither you nor any other human being shall ever see us 
again: I will go to the vast wilds of South America. My food is not that of 
man; I do not destroy the lamb and the kid to glut my appetite; acorns and 
berries afford me sufficient nourishment. My companion will be of the same 
nature as myself, and will be content with the same fare. We shall make our 
bed of dried leaves; the sun will shine on us as on man, and will ripen our 
food. The picture I present to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel 
that you could deny it only in the wantonness of power and cruelty. Pitiless 
as you have been towards me, I now see compassion in your eyes; let me seize 
the favourable moment, and persuade you to promise what I so ardently desire."
"You propose," replied I, "to fly from the habitations of man, to dwell in 
those wilds where the beasts of the field will be your only companions. How 
can you, who long for the love and sympathy of man, persevere in this exile? 
You will return, and again seek their kindness, and you will meet with their 
detestation; your evil passions will be renewed, and you will then have a 
companion to aid you in the task of destruction. This may not be: cease to 
argue the point, for I cannot consent."
"How inconstant are your feelings! but a moment ago you were moved by my 
representations, and why do you again harden yourself to my complaints? I 
swear to you, by the earth which I inhabit, and by you that made me, that, 
with the companion you bestow, I will quit the neighbourhood of man, and dwell 
as it may chance, in the most savage of places. My evil passions will have 
fled, for I shall meet with sympathy! my life will flow quietly away, and, in 
my dying moments, I shall not curse my maker."
His words had a strange effect upon me. I compassioned him, and sometimes felt 
a wish to console him; but when I looked upon him, when I saw the filthy mass 
that moved and talked, my heart sickened, and my feelings were altered to 
those of horror and hatred. I tried to stifle these sensations; I thought, 
that as I could not sympathise with him, I had no right to withhold from him 
the small portion of happiness which was yet in my power to bestow.
"You swear," I said, "to be harmless; but have you not already shown a degree 
of malice that should reasonably make me distrust you? May not even this be a 
feint that will increase your triumph by affording a wider scope for your 
revenge."
"How is this? I must not be trifled with: and I demand an answer. If I have no 
ties and no affections, hatred and vice must be my portion; the love of 
another will destroy the cause of my crimes, and I shall become a thing, of 
whose existence every one will be ignorant. My vices are the children of a 
forced solitude that I abhor; and my virtues will necessarily arise when I 
live in communion with an equal. I shall feel the affections of a sensitive 
being, and become linked to the chain of existence and events, from which I am 
now excluded."
I paused some time to reflect on all he had related, and the various arguments 
which he had employed. I thought of the promise of virtues which he had 
displayed on the opening of his existence, and the subsequent blight of all 
kindly feeling by the loathing and scorn which his protectors had manifested 
towards him. His power and threats were not omitted in my calculations: a 
creature who could exist in the ice-caves of the glaciers, and hide himself 
from pursuit among the ridges of inaccessible precipices, was a being 
possessing faculties it would be vain to cope with. After a long pause of 
reflection, I concluded that the justice due both to him and my 
fellow-creatures demanded of me that I should comply with his request. Turning 
to him, therefore, I said -
"I consent to your demand, on your solemn oath to quit Europe for ever, and 
every other place in the neighbourhood of man, as soon as I shall deliver into 
your hands a female who will accompany you in your exile."
"I swear," he cried, "by the sun, and by the blue sky of Heaven, and by the 
fire of love that burns my heart, that if you grant my prayer, while they 
exist you shall never behold me again. Depart to your home, and commence your 
labours: I shall watch their progress with unutterable anxiety; and fear not 
but that when you are ready I shall appear."
Saying this, he suddenly quitted me, fearful, perhaps, of any change in my 
sentiments. I saw him descend the mountain with greater speed than the flight 
of an eagle, and quickly lost him among the undulations of the sea of ice.
His tale had occupied the whole day; and the sun was upon the verge of the 
horizon when he departed. I knew that I ought to hasten my descent towards the 
valley, as I should soon be encompassed in darkness; but my heart was heavy, 
and my steps slow. The labour of winding among the little paths of the 
mountains, and fixing my feet firmly as I advanced, perplexed me, occupied as 
I was by the emotions which the occurrences of the day had produced. Night was 
far advanced, when I came to the halfway resting-place, and seated myself 
beside the fountain. The stars shone at intervals, as the clouds passed from 
over them; the dark pines rose before me, and every here and there a broken 
tree lay on the ground: it was a scene of wonderful solemnity, and stirred 
strange thoughts within me. I wept bitterly; and clasping my hands in agony, I 
exclaimed, "Oh! stars and clouds, and winds, ye are all about to mock me: if 
ye really pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me become as nought; but if 
not, depart, depart, and leave me in darkness."
These were wild and miserable thoughts; but I cannot describe to you how the 
eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me, and how I listened to every 
blast of wind, as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me.
Morning dawned before I arrived at the village of Chamounix; I took no rest, 
but returned immediately to Geneva. Even in my own heart I could give no 
expression to my sensations -they weighed on me with a mountain's weight, and 
their excess destroyed my agony beneath them. Thus I returned home, and 
entering the house, presented myself to the family. My haggard and wild 
appearance awoke intense alarm; but I answered no question, scarcely did I 
speak. I felt as if I were placed under a ban -as if I had no right to claim 
their sympathies -as if never more might I enjoy companionship with them. Yet 
even thus I loved them to adoration; and to save them, I resolved to dedicate 
myself to my most abhorred task. The prospect of such an occupation made every 
other circumstance of existence pass before me like a dream; and that thought 
only had to me the reality of life.


Chapter 18

Day after day, week after week, passed away on my return to Geneva; and I 
could not collect the courage to recommence my work. I feared the vengeance of 
the disappointed fiend, yet I was unable to overcome my repugnance to the task 
which was enjoined me. I found that I could not compose a female without again 
devoting several months to profound study and laborious disquisition. I had 
heard of some discoveries having been made by an English philosopher, the 
knowledge of which was material to my success, and I sometimes thought of 
obtaining my father's consent to visit England for this purpose; but I clung 
to every pretence of delay, and shrunk from taking the first step in an 
undertaking whose immediate necessity began to appear less absolute to me. A 
change indeed had taken place in me: my health, which had hitherto declined, 
was now much restored; and my spirits, when unchecked by the memory of my 
unhappy promise, rose proportionably. My father saw this change with pleasure, 
and he turned his thoughts towards the best method of eradicating the remains 
of my melancholy, which every now and then would return by fits, and with a 
devouring blackness overcast the approaching sunshine. At these moments I took 
refuge in the most perfect solitude. I passed whole days on the lake alone in 
a little boat, watching the clouds, and listening to the rippling of the 
waves, silent and listless. But the fresh air and bright sun seldom failed to 
restore me to some degree of composure; and, on my return, I met the 
salutations of my friends with a readier smile and a more cheerful heart. It 
was after my return from one of these rambles, that my father, calling me 
aside, thus addressed me: -
"I am happy to remark, my dear son, that you have resumed your former 
pleasures, and seem to be returning to yourself. And yet you are still 
unhappy, and still avoid our society. For some time I was lost in conjecture 
as to the cause of this; but yesterday an idea struck me, and if it is well 
founded, I conjure you to avow it. Reserve on such a point would be not only 
useless, but draw down treble misery on us all."
I trembled violently at his exordium, and my father continued -
"I confess, my son, that I have always looked forward to your marriage with 
our dear Elizabeth as the tie of our domestic comfort, and the stay of my 
declining years. You were attached to each other from your earliest infancy; 
you studied together, and appeared, in dispositions and tastes, entirely 
suited to one another. But so blind is the experience of man, that what I 
conceived to be the best assistants to my plan, may have entirely destroyed 
it. You, perhaps, regard her as your sister, without any wish that she might 
become your wife. Nay, you may have met with another whom you may love; and, 
considering yourself as bound in honour to Elizabeth, this struggle may 
occasion the poignant misery which you appear to feel."
"My dear father, reassure yourself. I love my cousin tenderly and sincerely. I 
never saw any woman who excited, as Elizabeth does, my warmest admiration and 
affection. My future hopes and prospects are entirely bound up in the 
expectation of our union."
"The expression of your sentiments on this subject, my dear Victor, gives me 
more pleasure than I have for some time experienced. If you feel thus, we 
shall assuredly be happy, however present events may cast a gloom over us. But 
it is this gloom which appears to have taken so strong a hold of your mind, 
that I wish to dissipate. Tell me, therefore, whether you object to an 
immediate solemnisation of the marriage. We have been unfortunate, and recent 
events have drawn us from that every-day tranquillity befitting my years and 
infirmities. You are younger; yet I do not suppose, possessed as you are of a 
competent fortune, that an early marriage would at all interfere with any 
future plans of honour and utility that you may have formed. Do not suppose, 
however, that I wish to dictate happiness to you, or that a delay on your part 
would cause me any serious uneasiness. Interpret my words with candour, and 
answer me, I conjure you, with confidence and sincerity."
I listened to my father in silence, and remained for some time incapable of 
offering any reply. I revolved rapidly in my mind a multitude of thoughts, and 
endeavoured to arrive at some conclusion. Alas! to me the idea of an immediate 
union with my Elizabeth was one of horror and dismay. I was bound by a solemn 
promise, which I had not yet fulfilled, and dared not break; or, if I did, 
what manifold miseries might not impend over me and my devoted family! Could I 
enter into a festival with this deadly weight yet hanging round my neck, and 
bowing me to the ground? I must perform my engagement, and let the monster 
depart with his mate, before I allowed myself to enjoy the delight of an union 
from which I expected peace.
I remembered also the necessity imposed upon me of either journeying to 
England, or entering into a long correspondence with those philosophers of 
that country, whose knowledge and discoveries were of indispensable use to me 
in my present undertaking. The latter method of obtaining the desired 
intelligence was dilatory and unsatisfactory: besides, I had an insurmountable 
aversion to the idea of engaging myself in my loathsome task in my father's 
house, while in habits of familiar intercourse with those I loved. I knew that 
a thousand fearful accidents might occur, the slightest of which would 
disclose a tale to thrill all connected with me with horror. I was aware also 
that I should often lose all self-command, all capacity of hiding the 
harrowing sensations that would possess me during the progress of my unearthly 
occupation. I must absent myself from all I loved while thus employed. Once 
commenced, it would quickly be achieved, and I might be restored to my family 
in peace and happiness. My promise fulfilled, the monster would depart for 
ever. Or (so my fond fancy imaged) some accident might meanwhile occur to 
destroy him, and put an end to my slavery for ever.
These feelings dictated my answer to my father. I expressed a wish to visit 
England; but, concealing the true reasons of this request, I clothed my 
desires under a guise which excited no suspicion, while I urged my desire with 
an earnestness that easily induced my father to comply. After so long a period 
of an absorbing melancholy, that resembled madness in its intensity and 
effects, he was glad to find that I was capable of taking pleasure in the idea 
of such a journey, and he hoped that change of scene and varied amusement 
would, before my return, have restored me entirely to myself.
The duration of my absence was left to my own choice; a few months, or at most 
a year, was the period contemplated. One paternal kind precaution he had taken 
to ensure my having a companion. Without previously communicating with me, he 
had, in concert with Elizabeth, arranged that Clerval should join me at 
Strasbourg. This interfered with the solitude I coveted for the prosecution of 
my task; yet at the commencement of my journey the presence of my friend could 
in no way be an impediment, and truly I rejoiced that thus I should be saved 
many hours of lonely, maddening reflection. Nay, Henry might stand between me 
and the intrusion of my foe. If I were alone, would he not at times force his 
abhorred presence on me, to remind me of my task, or to contemplate its 
progress?
To England, therefore, I was bound, and it was understood that my union with 
Elizabeth should take place immediately on my return. My father's age rendered 
him extremely averse to delay. For myself, there was one reward I promised 
myself from my detested toils -one consolation for my unparalleled sufferings; 
it was the prospect of that day when, enfranchised from my miserable slavery, 
I might claim Elizabeth, and forget the past in my union with her.
I now made arrangements for my journey; but one feeling haunted me, which 
filled me with fear and agitation. During my absence I should leave my friends 
unconscious of the existence of their enemy, and unprotected from his attacks, 
exasperated as he might be by my departure. But he had promised to follow me 
wherever I might go; and would he not accompany me to England? This 
imagination was dreadful in itself, but soothing, inasmuch as it supposed the 
safety of my friends. I was agonised with the idea of the possibility that the 
reverse of this might happen. But through the whole period during which I was 
the slave of my creature, I allowed myself to be governed by the impulses of 
the moment; and my present sensations strongly intimated that the fiend would 
follow me, and exempt my family from the danger of his machinations.
It was in the latter end of September that I again quitted my native country. 
My journey had been my own suggestion, and Elizabeth, therefore, acquiesced: 
but she was filled with disquiet at the idea of my suffering, away from her, 
the inroads of misery and grief. It had been her care which provided me a 
companion in Clerval -and yet a man is blind to a thousand minute 
circumstances, which call forth a woman's sedulous attention. She longed to 
bid me hasten my return, -a thousand conflicting emotions rendered her mute, 
as she bade me a tearful silent farewell.
I threw myself into the carriage that was to convey me away, hardly knowing 
whither I was going, and careless of what was passing around. I remembered 
only, and it was with a bitter anguish that I reflected on it, to order that 
my chemical instruments should be packed to go with me. Filled with dreary 
imaginations, I passed through many beautiful and majestic scenes; but my eyes 
were fixed and unobserving. I could only think of the bourne of my travels, 
and the work which was to occupy me whilst they endured.
After some days spent in listless indolence, during which I traversed many 
leagues, I arrived at Strasbourg, where I waited two days for Clerval. He 
came. Alas, how great was the contrast between us! He was alive to every new 
scene; joyful when he saw the beauties of the setting sun, and more happy when 
he beheld it rise, and recommence a new day. He pointed out to me the shifting 
colours of the landscape, and the appearances of the sky. "This is what it is 
to live," he cried, "now I enjoy existence! But you, my dear Frankenstein, 
wherefore are you desponding and sorrowful?" In truth, I was occupied by 
gloomy thoughts, and neither saw the descent of the evening star, nor the 
golden sunrise reflected in the Rhine. -And you, my friend, would be far more 
amused with the journal of Clerval, who observed the scenery with an eye of 
feeling and delight, than in listening to my reflections. I, a miserable 
wretch, haunted by a curse that shut up every avenue to enjoyment.
We had agreed to descend the Rhine in a boat from Strasbourg to Rotterdam, 
whence we might take shipping for London. During this voyage, we passed many 
willowy islands, and saw several beautiful towns. We stayed a day at Manheim, 
and, on the fifth from our departure from Strasbourg, arrived at Mayence. The 
course of the Rhine below Mayence becomes much more picturesque. The river 
descends rapidly, and winds between hills, not high, but steep, and of 
beautiful forms. We saw many ruined castles standing on the edges of 
precipices, surrounded by black woods, high and inaccessible. This part of the 
Rhine, indeed, presents a singularly variegated landscape. In one spot you 
view rugged hills, ruined castles overlooking tremendous precipices, with the 
dark Rhine rushing beneath; and, on the sudden turn of a promontory, 
flourishing vineyards, with green sloping banks, and a meandering river, and 
populous towns occupy the scene.
We travelled at the time of the vintage, and heard the song of the labourers, 
as we glided down the stream. Even I, depressed in mind, and my spirits 
continually agitated by gloomy feelings, even I was pleased. I lay at the 
bottom of the boat, and, as I gazed on the cloudless blue sky, I seemed to 
drink in a tranquillity to which I had long been a stranger. And if these were 
my sensations, who can describe those of Henry? He felt as if he had been 
transported to Fairy-land, and enjoyed a happiness seldom tasted by man. "I 
have seen," he said, "the most beautiful scenes of my own country; I have 
visited the lakes of Lucerne and Uri, where the snowy mountains descend almost 
perpendicularly to the water, casting black and impenetrable shades, which 
would cause a gloomy and mournful appearance, were it not for the most verdant 
islands that relieve the eye by their gay appearance; I have seen this lake 
agitated by a tempest, when the wind tore up whirlwinds of water, and gave you 
an idea of what the water-spout must be on the great ocean, and the waves dash 
with fury the base of the mountain, where the priest and his mistress were 
overwhelmed by an avalanche, and where their dying voices are still said to be 
heard amid the pauses of the nightly wind; I have seen the mountains of La 
Valais, and the Pays de Vaud: but this country, Victor, pleases me more than 
all those wonders. The mountains of Switzerland are more majestic and strange; 
but there is a charm in the banks of this divine river, that I never before 
saw equalled. Look at that castle which overhangs yon precipice; and that also 
on the island, almost concealed amongst the foliage of those lovely trees; and 
now that group of labourers coming from among their vines; and that village 
half hid in the recess of the mountain. Oh, surely, the spirit that inhabits 
and guards this place has a soul more in harmony with man, than those who pile 
the glacier, or retire to the inaccessible peaks of the mountains of our own 
country."
Clerval! beloved friend! even now it delights me to record your words, and to 
dwell on the praise of which you are so eminently deserving. He was a being 
formed in the "very poetry of nature." His wild and enthusiastic imagination 
was chastened by the sensibility of his heart. His soul overflowed with ardent 
affections, and his friendship was of that devoted and wondrous nature that 
the worldly-minded teach us to look for only in the imagination. But even 
human sympathies were not sufficient to satisfy his eager mind. The scenery of 
external nature, which others regard only with admiration, he loved with ardour:

"The sounding cataract
Haunted him like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to him
An appetite; a feeling, and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, or any interest
Unborrow'd from the eye."

And where does he now exist? Is this gentle and lovely being lost for ever? 
Has this mind, so replete with ideas, imaginations fanciful and magnificent, 
which formed a world, whose existence depended on the life of its creator; 
-has this mind perished? Does it now only exist in my memory? No, it is not 
thus; your form so divinely wrought, and beaming with beauty, has decayed, but 
your spirit still visits and consoles your unhappy friend.
Pardon this gush of sorrow; these ineffectual words are but a slight tribute 
to the unexampled worth of Henry, but they soothe my heart, overflowing with 
the anguish which his remembrance creates. I will proceed with my tale.
Beyond Cologne we descended to the plains of Holland; and we resolved to post 
the remainder of our way; for the wind was contrary, and the stream of the 
river was too gentle to aid us.
Our journey here lost the interest arising from beautiful scenery; but we 
arrived in a few days at Rotterdam, whence we proceeded by sea to England. It 
was on a clear morning, in the latter days of December, that I first saw the 
white cliffs of Britain. The banks of the Thames presented a new scene; they 
were flat, but fertile, and almost every town was marked by the remembrance of 
some story. We saw Tilbury Fort, and remembered the Spanish armada; Gravesend, 
Woolwich, and Greenwich, places which I had heard of even in my country.
At length we saw the numerous steeples of London, St. Paul's towering above 
all, and the Tower famed in English history.


Chapter 19

London was our present point of rest; we determined to remain several months 
in this wonderful and celebrated city. Clerval desired the intercourse of the 
men of genius and talent who flourished at this time; but this was with me a 
secondary object; I was principally occupied with the means of obtaining the 
information necessary for the completion of my promise, and quickly availed 
myself of the letters of introduction that I had brought with me, addressed to 
the most distinguished natural philosophers.
If this journey had taken place during my days of study and happiness, it 
would have afforded me inexpressible pleasure. But a blight had come over my 
existence, and I only visited these people for the sake of the information 
they might give me on the subject in which my interest was so terribly 
profound. Company was irksome to me; when alone, I could fill my mind with the 
sights of heaven and earth; the voice of Henry soothed me, and I could thus 
cheat myself into a transitory peace. But busy uninteresting joyous faces 
brought back despair to my heart. I saw an insurmountable barrier placed 
between me and my fellowmen; this barrier was sealed with the blood of William 
and Justine; and to reflect on the events connected with those names filled my 
soul with anguish.
But in Clerval I saw the image of my former self; he was inquisitive, and 
anxious to gain experience and instruction. The difference of manners which he 
observed was to him an inexhaustible source of instruction and amusement. He 
was also pursuing an object he had long had in view. His design was to visit 
India, in the belief that he had in his knowledge of its various languages, 
and in the views he had taken of its society, the means of materially 
assisting the progress of European colonisation and trade. In Britain only 
could he further the execution of his plan. He was for ever busy; and the only 
check to his enjoyments was my sorrowful and dejected mind. I tried to conceal 
this as much as possible, that I might not debar him from the pleasures 
natural to one, who was entering on a new scene of life, undisturbed by any 
care or bitter recollection. I often refused to accompany him, alleging 
another engagement, that I might remain alone. I now also began to collect the 
materials necessary for my new creation, and this was to me like the torture 
of single drops of water continually falling on the head. Every thought that 
was devoted to it was an extreme anguish, and every word that I spoke in 
allusion to it caused my lips to quiver, and my heart to palpitate.
After passing some months in London, we received a letter from a person in 
Scotland, who had formerly been our visitor at Geneva. He mentioned the 
beauties of his native country, and asked us if those were not sufficient 
allurements to induce us to prolong our journey as far north as Perth, where 
he resided. Clerval eagerly desired to accept this invitation; and I, although 
I abhorred society, wished to view again mountains and streams, and all the 
wondrous works with which Nature adorns her chosen dwelling-places.
We had arrived in England at the beginning of October, and it was now 
February. We accordingly determined to commence our journey towards the north 
at the expiration of another month. In this expedition we did not intend to 
follow the great road to Edinburgh, but to visit Windsor, Oxford, Matlock, and 
the Cumberland lakes, resolving to arrive at the completion of this tour about 
the end of July. I packed up my chemical instruments, and the materials I had 
collected, resolving to finish my labours in some obscure nook in the northern 
highlands of Scotland.
We quitted London on the 27th of March, and remained a few days at Windsor, 
rambling in its beautiful forest. This was a new scene to us mountaineers; the 
majestic oaks, the quantity of game, and the herds of stately deer, were all 
novelties to us.
From thence we proceeded to Oxford. As we entered this city, our minds were 
filled with the remembrance of the events that had been transacted there more 
than a century and a half before. It was here that Charles I. had collected 
his forces. This city had remained faithful to him, after the whole nation had 
forsaken his cause to join the standard of parliament and liberty. The memory 
of that unfortunate king, and his companions, the amiable Falkland, the 
insolent Goring, his queen, and son, gave a peculiar interest to every part of 
the city, which they might be supposed to have inhabited. The spirit of elder 
days found a dwelling here, and we delighted to trace its footsteps. If these 
feelings had not found an imaginary gratification, the appearance of the city 
had yet in itself sufficient beauty to obtain our admiration. The colleges are 
ancient and picturesque; the streets are almost magnificent; and the lovely 
Isis, which flows beside it through meadows of exquisite verdure, is spread 
forth into a placid expanse of waters, which reflects its majestic assemblage 
of towers, and spires, and domes, embosomed among aged trees.
I enjoyed this scene; and yet my enjoyment was embittered both by the memory 
of the past, and the anticipation of the future. I was formed for peaceful 
happiness. During my youthful days discontent never visited my mind; and if I 
was ever overcome by ennui, the sight of what is beautiful in nature, or the 
study of what is excellent and sublime in the productions of man, could always 
interest my heart, and communicate elasticity to my spirits. But I am a 
blasted tree; the bolt has entered my soul; and I felt then that I should 
survive to exhibit, what I shall soon cease to be -a miserable spectacle of 
wrecked humanity, pitiable to others, and intolerable to myself.
We passed a considerable period at Oxford, rambling among its environs, and 
endeavouring to identify every spot which might relate to the most animating 
epoch of English history. Our little voyages of discovery were often prolonged 
by the successive objects that presented themselves. We visited the tomb of 
the illustrious Hampden, and the field on which that patriot fell. For a 
moment my soul was elevated from its debasing and miserable fears, to 
contemplate the divine ideas of liberty and self-sacrifice, of which these 
sights were the monuments and the remembrancers. For an instant I dared to 
shake off my chains, and look around me with a free and lofty spirit; but the 
iron had eaten into my flesh, and I sank again, trembling and hopeless, into 
my miserable self.
We left Oxford with regret, and proceeded to Matlock, which was our next place 
of rest. The country in the neighbourhood of this village resembled, to a 
greater degree, the scenery of Switzerland; but every thing is on a lower 
scale, and the green hills want the crown of distant white Alps, which always 
attend on the piny mountains of my native country. We visited the wondrous 
cave, and the little cabinets of natural history, where the curiosities are 
disposed in the same manner as in the collections at Servox and Chamounix. The 
latter name made me tremble, when pronounced by Henry; and I hastened to quit 
Matlock, with which that terrible scene was thus associated.
From Derby, still journeying northward, we passed two months in Cumberland and 
Westmorland. I could now almost fancy myself among the Swiss mountains. The 
little patches of snow which yet lingered on the northern sides of the 
mountains, the lakes, and the dashing of the rocky streams, were all familiar 
and dear sights to me. Here also we made some acquaintances, who almost 
contrived to cheat me into happiness. The delight of Clerval was 
proportionably greater than mine; his mind expanded in the company of men of 
talent, and he found in his own nature greater capacities and resources than 
he could have imagined himself to have possessed while he associated with his 
inferiors. "I could pass my life here," said he to me; "and among these 
mountains I should scarcely regret Switzerland and the Rhine."
But he found that a traveller's life is one that includes much pain amidst its 
enjoyments. His feelings are for ever on the stretch; and when he begins to 
sink into repose, he finds himself obliged to quit that on which he rests in 
pleasure for something new, which again engages his attention, and which also 
he forsakes for other novelties.
We had scarcely visited the various lakes of Cumberland and Westmorland, and 
conceived an affection for some of the inhabitants, when the period of our 
appointment with our Scotch friend approached, and we left them to travel on. 
For my own part I was not sorry. I had now neglected my promise for some time, 
and I feared the effects of the daemon's disappointment. He might remain in 
Switzerland, and wreak his vengeance on my relatives. This idea pursued me, 
and tormented me at every moment from which I might otherwise have snatched 
repose and peace. I waited for my letters with feverish impatience: if they 
were delayed, I was miserable, and overcome by a thousand fears; and when they 
arrived, and I saw the superscription of Elizabeth or my father, I hardly 
dared to read and ascertain my fate. Sometimes I thought that the fiend 
followed me, and might expedite my remissness by murdering my companion. When 
these thoughts possessed me, I would not quit Henry for a moment, but followed 
him as his shadow, to protect him from the fancied rage of his destroyer. I 
felt as if I had committed some great crime, the consciousness of which 
haunted me. I was guiltless, but I had indeed drawn down a horrible curse upon 
my head, as mortal as that of crime. I visited Edinburgh with languid eyes and 
mind; and yet that city might have interested the most unfortunate being. 
Clerval did not like it so well as Oxford: for the antiquity of the latter 
city was more pleasing to him. But the beauty and regularity of the new town 
of Edinburgh, its romantic castle, and its environs, the most delightful in 
the world, Arthur's Seat, St. Bernard's Well, and the Pentland Hills, 
compensated him for the change, and filled him with cheerfulness and 
admiration. But I was impatient to arrive at the termination of my journey.
We left Edinburgh in a week, passing through Coupar, St. Andrew's, and along 
the banks of the Tay, to Perth, where our friend expected us. But I was in no 
mood to laugh and talk with strangers, or enter into their feelings or plans 
with the good humour expected from a guest; and accordingly I told Clerval 
that I wished to make the tour of Scotland alone. "Do you," said I, "enjoy 
yourself, and let this be our rendezvous. I may be absent a month or two; but 
do not interfere with my motions, I entreat you: leave me to peace and 
solitude for a short time; and when I return, I hope it will be with a lighter 
heart, more congenial to your own temper."
Henry wished to dissuade me; but, seeing me bent on this plan, ceased to 
remonstrate. He entreated me to write often. "I had rather be with you," he 
said, "in your solitary rambles, than with these Scotch people, whom I do not 
know: hasten then, my dear friend, to return, that I may again feel myself 
somewhat at home, which I cannot do in your absence."
Having parted from my friend, I determined to visit some remote spot of 
Scotland, and finish my work in solitude. I did not doubt but that the monster 
followed me, and would discover himself to me when I should have finished, 
that he might receive his companion.
With this resolution I traversed the northern highlands, and fixed on one of 
the remotest of the Orkneys as the scene of my labours. It was a place fitted 
for such a work, being hardly more than a rock, whose high sides were 
continually beaten upon by the waves. The soil was barren, scarcely affording 
pasture for a few miserable cows, and oatmeal for its inhabitants, which 
consisted of five persons, whose gaunt and scraggy limbs gave tokens of their 
miserable fare. Vegetables and bread, when they indulged in such luxuries, and 
even fresh water, was to be procured from the main land, which was about five 
miles distant.
On the whole island there were but three miserable huts, and one of these was 
vacant when I arrived. This I hired. It contained but two rooms, and these 
exhibited all the squalidness of the most miserable penury. The thatch had 
fallen in, the walls were unplastered, and the door was off its hinges. I 
ordered it to be repaired, bought some furniture, and took possession; an 
incident which would, doubtless, have occasioned some surprise, had not all 
the senses of the cottagers been benumbed by want and squalid poverty. As it 
was, I lived ungazed at and unmolested, hardly thanked for the pittance of 
food and clothes which I gave; so much does suffering blunt even the coarsest 
sensations of men.
In this retreat I devoted the morning to labour; but in the evening, when the 
weather permitted, I walked on the stony beach of the sea, to listen to the 
waves as they roared and dashed at my feet. It was a monotonous yet 
ever-changing scene. I thought of Switzerland; it was far different from this 
desolate and appalling landscape. Its hills are covered with vines, and its 
cottages are scattered thickly in the plains. Its fair lakes reflect a blue 
and gentle sky; and, when troubled by the winds, their tumult is but as the 
play of a lively infant, when compared to the roarings of the giant ocean.
In this manner I distributed my occupations when I first arrived; but, as I 
proceeded in my labour, it became every day more horrible and irksome to me. 
Sometimes I could not prevail on myself to enter my laboratory for several 
days; and at other times I toiled day and night in order to complete my work. 
It was, indeed, a filthy process in which I was engaged. During my first 
experiment, a kind of enthusiastic frenzy had blinded me to the horror of my 
employment; my mind was intently fixed on the consummation of my labour, and 
my eyes were shut to the horror of my proceedings. But now I went to it in 
cold blood, and my heart often sickened at the work of my hands.
Thus situated, employed in the most detestable occupation, immersed in a 
solitude where nothing could for an instant call my attention from the actual 
scene in which I was engaged, my spirits became unequal; I grew restless and 
nervous. Every moment I feared to meet my persecutor. Sometimes I sat with my 
eyes fixed on the ground, fearing to raise them, lest they should encounter 
the object which I so much dreaded to behold. I feared to wander from the 
sight of my fellow-creatures, lest when alone he should come to claim his 
companion.
In the mean time I worked on, and my labour was already considerably advanced. 
I looked towards its completion with a tremulous and eager hope, which I dared 
not trust myself to question, but which was intermixed with obscure 
forebodings of evil, that made my heart sicken in my bosom.


Chapter 20

I sat one evening in my laboratory; the sun had set, and the moon was just 
rising from the sea; I had not sufficient light for my employment, and I 
remained idle, in a pause of consideration of whether I should leave my labour 
for the night, or hasten its conclusion by an unremitting attention to it. As 
I sat, a train of reflection occurred to me, which led me to consider the 
effects of what I was now doing. Three years before I was engaged in the same 
manner, and had created a fiend whose unparalleled barbarity had desolated my 
heart, and filled it for ever with the bitterest remorse. I was now about to 
form another being, of whose dispositions I was alike ignorant; she might 
become ten thousand times more malignant than her mate, and delight, for its 
own sake, in murder and wretchedness. He had sworn to quit the neighbourhood 
of man, and hide himself in deserts; but she had not; and she, who in all 
probability was to become a thinking and reasoning animal, might refuse to 
comply with a compact made before her creation. They might even hate each 
other; the creature who already lived loathed his own deformity, and might he 
not conceive a greater abhorrence for it when it came before his eyes in the 
female form? She also might turn with disgust from him to the superior beauty 
of man; she might quit him, and he be again alone, exasperated by the fresh 
provocation of being deserted by one of his own species.
Even if they were to leave Europe, and inhabit the deserts of the new world, 
yet one of the first results of those sympathies for which the daemon thirsted 
would be children, and a race of devils would be propagated upon the earth, 
who might make the very existence of the species of man a condition precarious 
and full of terror. Had I a right, for my own benefit, to inflict this curse 
upon everlasting generations? I had before been moved by the sophisms of the 
being I had created; I had been struck senseless by his fiendish threats: but 
now, for the first time, the wickedness of my promise burst upon me; I 
shuddered to think that future ages might curse me as their pest, whose 
selfishness had not hesitated to buy its own peace at the price, perhaps, of 
the existence of the whole human race.
I trembled, and my heart failed within me; when, on looking up, I saw, by the 
light of the moon, the daemon at the casement. A ghastly grin wrinkled his 
lips as he gazed on me, where I sat fulfilling the task which he had allotted 
to me. Yes, he had followed me in my travels; he had loitered in forests, hid 
himself in caves, or taken refuge in wide and desert heaths; and he now came 
to mark my progress, and claim the fulfilment of my promise.
As I looked on him, his countenance expressed the utmost extent of malice and 
treachery. I thought with a sensation of madness on my promise of creating 
another like to him, and trembling with passion, tore to pieces the thing on 
which I was engaged. The wretch saw me destroy the creature on whose future 
existence he depended for happiness, and, with a howl of devilish despair and 
revenge, withdrew.
I left the room, and, locking the door, made a solemn vow in my own heart 
never to resume my labours; and then, with trembling steps, I sought my own 
apartment. I was alone; none were near me to dissipate the gloom, and relieve 
me from the sickening oppression of the most terrible reveries.
Several hours passed, and I remained near my window gazing on the sea; it was 
almost motionless, for the winds were hushed, and all nature reposed under the 
eye of the quiet moon. A few fishing vessels alone specked the water, and now 
and then the gentle breeze wafted the sound of voices, as the fishermen called 
to one another. I felt the silence, although I was hardly conscious of its 
extreme profundity, until my ear was suddenly arrested by the paddling of oars 
near the shore, and a person landed close to my house.
In a few minutes after, I hear the creaking of my door, as if some one 
endeavoured to open it softly. I trembled from head to foot; I felt a 
presentiment of who it was, and wished to rouse one of the peasants who dwelt 
in a cottage not far from mine; but I was overcome by the sensation of 
helplessness, so often felt in frightful dreams, when you in vain endeavour to 
fly from an impending danger, and was rooted to the spot.
Presently I heard the sound of footsteps along the passage; the door opened, 
and the wretch whom I dreaded appeared. Shutting the door, he approached me, 
and said, in a smothered voice -
"You have destroyed the work which you began; what is it that you intend? Do 
you dare to break your promise? I have endured toil and misery: I left 
Switzerland with you; I crept along the shores of the Rhine, among its willow 
islands, and over the summits of its hills. I have dwelt many months in the 
heaths of England, and among the deserts of Scotland. I have endured 
incalculable fatigue, and cold, and hunger; do you dare destroy my hopes?"
"Begone! I do break my promise; never will I create another like yourself, 
equal in deformity and wickedness."
"Slave, I before reasoned with you, but you have proved yourself unworthy of 
my condescension. Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, 
but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you. 
You are my creator, but I am your master; -obey!"
"The hour of my irresolution is past, and the period of your power is arrived. 
Your threats cannot move me to do a act of wickedness; but they confirm me in 
a determination of not creating you a companion in vice. Shall I, in cool 
blood, set loose upon the earth a daemon, whose delight is in death and 
wretchedness? Begone! I am firm, and your words will only exasperate my rage."
The monster saw my determination in my face, and gnashed his teeth in the 
impotence of anger. "Shall each man," cried he, "find a wife for his bosom, 
and each beast have his mate, and I be alone? I had feelings of affection, and 
they were requited by detestation and scorn. Man! you may hate; but beware! 
your hours will pass in dread and misery, and soon the bolt will fall which 
must ravish from you your happiness for ever. Are you to be happy, while I 
grovel in the intensity of my wretchedness? You can blast my other passions; 
but revenge remains -revenge, henceforth dearer than light or food! I may die; 
but first you, my tyrant and tormentor, shall curse the sun that gazes on your 
misery. Beware; for I am fearless, and therefore powerful. I will watch with 
the wiliness of a snake, that I may sting with its venom. Man, you shall 
repent of the injuries you inflict."
"Devil, cease; and do not poison the air with these sounds of malice. I have 
declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath words. Leave 
me; I am inexorable."
"It is well. I go; but remember, I shall be with you on your wedding-night."
I started forward, and exclaimed, "Villain! before you sign my death-warrant, 
be sure that you are yourself safe."
I would have seized him; but he eluded me, and quitted the house with 
precipitation. In a few moments I saw him in his boat, which shot across the 
waters with an arrowy swiftness, and was soon lost amidst the waves.
All was again silent; but his words rung in my ears. I burned with rage to 
pursue the murderer of my peace, and precipitate him into the ocean. I walked 
up and down my room hastily and perturbed, while my imagination conjured up a 
thousand images to torment and sting me. Why had I not followed him, and 
closed with him in mortal strife? But I had suffered him to depart, and he had 
directed his course towards the main land. I shuddered to think who might be 
the next victim sacrificed to his insatiate revenge. And then I thought again 
of his words -"I will be with you on your wedding-night." That then was the 
period fixed for the fulfilment of my destiny. In that hour I should die, and 
at once satisfy and extinguish his malice. The prospect did not move me to 
fear; yet when I thought of my beloved Elizabeth, -of her tears and endless 
sorrow, when she should find her lover so barbarously snatched from her, 
-tears, the first I had shed for many months, streamed from my eyes, and I 
resolved not to fall before my enemy without a bitter struggle.
The night passed away, and the sun rose from the ocean; my feelings became 
calmer, if it may be called calmness, when the violence of rage sinks into the 
depths of despair. I left the house, the horrid scene of the last night's 
contention, and walked on the beach of the sea, which I almost regarded as an 
insuperable barrier between me and my fellow-creatures; nay, a wish that such 
should prove the fact stole across me. I desired that I might pass my life on 
that barren rock, wearily, it is true, but uninterrupted by any sudden shock 
of misery. If I returned, it was to be sacrificed, or to see those whom I most 
loved die under the grasp of a daemon whom I had myself created.
I walked about the isle like a restless spectre, separated from all it loved, 
and miserable in the separation. When it became noon, and the sun rose higher, 
I lay down on the grass, and was overpowered by a deep sleep. I had been awake 
the whole of the preceding night, my nerves were agitated, and my eyes 
inflamed by watching and misery. The sleep into which I now sunk refreshed me; 
and when I awoke, I again felt as if I belonged to a race of human beings like 
myself, and I began to reflect upon what had passed with greater composure; 
yet still the words of the fiend rung in my ears like a death-knell, they 
appeared like a dream, yet distinct and oppressive as a reality.
The sun had far descended, and I still sat on the shore, satisfying my 
appetite, which had become ravenous, with an oaten cake, when I saw a 
fishing-boat land close to me, and one of the men brought me a packet; it 
contained letters from Geneva, and one from Clerval, entreating me to join 
him. He said that he was wearing away his time fruitlessly where he was; that 
letters from the friends he had formed in London desired his return to 
complete the negotiation they had entered into for his Indian enterprise. He 
could not any longer delay his departure; but as his journey to London might 
be followed, even sooner than he now conjectured, by his longer voyage, he 
entreated me to bestow as much of my society on him as I could spare. He 
besought me, therefore, to leave my solitary isle, and to meet him at Perth, 
that we might proceed southwards together. This letter in a degree recalled me 
to life, and I determined to quit my island at the expiration of two days.
Yet, before I departed, there was a task to perform, on which I shuddered to 
reflect: I must pack up my chemical instruments; and for that purpose I must 
enter the room which had been the scene of my odious work, and I must handle 
those utensils, the sight of which was sickening to me. The next morning, at 
daybreak, I summoned sufficient courage, and unlocked the door of my 
laboratory. The remains of the half-finished creature, whom I had destroyed, 
lay scattered on the floor, and I almost felt as if I had mangled the living 
flesh of a human being. I paused to collect myself, and then entered the 
chamber. With trembling hand I conveyed the instruments out of the room; but I 
reflected that I ought not to leave the relics of my work to excite the horror 
and suspicion of the peasants; and I accordingly put them into a basket, with 
a great quantity of stones, and, laying them up, determined to throw them into 
the sea that very night; and in the mean time I sat upon the beach, employed 
in cleaning and arranging my chemical apparatus.
Nothing could be more complete than the alteration that had taken place in my 
feelings since the night of the appearance of the daemon. I had before 
regarded my promise with a gloomy despair, as a thing that, with whatever 
consequences, must be fulfilled; but I now felt as if a film had been taken 
from before my eyes, and that I, for the first time, saw clearly. The idea of 
renewing my labours did not for one instant occur to me; the threat I had 
heard weighed on my thoughts, but I did not reflect that a voluntary act of 
mine could avert it. I had resolved in my own mind, that to create another 
like the fiend I had first made would be an act of the basest and most 
atrocious selfishness; and I banished from my mind every thought that could 
lead to a different conclusion.
Between two and three in the morning the moon rose; and I then, putting my 
basket aboard a little skiff, sailed out about four miles from the shore. The 
scene was perfectly solitary: a few boats were returning towards land, but I 
sailed away from them. I felt as if I was about the commission of a dreadful 
crime, and avoided with shuddering anxiety any encounter with my 
fellow-creatures. At one time the moon, which had before been clear, was 
suddenly overspread by a thick cloud, and I took advantage of the moment of 
darkness, and cast my basket into the sea: I listened to the gurgling sound as 
it sunk, and then sailed away from the spot. The sky became clouded; but the 
air was pure, although chilled by the north-east breeze that was then rising. 
But it refreshed me, and filled me with such agreeable sensations, that I 
resolved to prolong my stay on the water; and, fixing the rudder in a direct 
position, stretched myself at the bottom of the boat. Clouds hid the moon, 
every thing was obscure, and I heard only the sound of the boat, as its keel 
cut through the waves; the murmur lulled me, and in a short time I slept 
soundly.
I do not know how long I remained in this situation, but when I awoke I found 
that the sun had already mounted considerably. The wind was high, and the 
waves continually threatened the safety of my little skiff. I found that the 
wind was north-east, and must have driven me far from the coast from which I 
had embarked. I endeavoured to change my course, but quickly found that, if I 
again made the attempt, the boat would be instantly filled with water. Thus 
situated, my only resource was to drive before the wind. I confess that I felt 
a few sensations of terror. I had no compass with me, and was so slenderly 
acquainted with the geography of this part of the world, that the sun was of 
little benefit to me. I might be driven into the wide Atlantic, and feel all 
the tortures of starvation, or be swallowed up in the immeasurable waters that 
roared and buffeted around me. I had already been out many hours, and felt the 
torment of a burning thirst, a prelude to my other sufferings. I looked on the 
heavens, which were covered by clouds that flew the wind, only to be replaced 
by others: I looked upon the sea, it was to be my grave. "Fiend," I exclaimed, 
"your task is already fulfilled!" I thought of Elizabeth, of my father, and of 
Clerval; all left behind, on whom the monster might satisfy his sanguinary and 
merciless passions. This idea plunged me into a reverie, so despairing and 
frightful, that even now, when the scene is on the point of closing before me 
for ever, I shudder to reflect on it.
Some hours passed thus; but by degrees, as the sun declined towards the 
horizon, the wind died away into a gentle breeze, and the sea became free from 
breakers. But these gave place to a heavy swell: I felt sick, and hardly able 
to hold the rudder, when suddenly I saw a line of high land towards the south.
Almost spent, as I was, by fatigue, and the dreadful suspense I endured for 
several hours, this sudden certainty of life rushed like a flood of warm joy 
to my heart, and tears gushed from my eyes.
How mutable are our feelings, and how strange is that clinging love we have of 
life even in the excess of misery! I constructed another sail with a part of 
my dress, and eagerly steered my course towards the land. It had a wild and 
rocky appearance; but, as I approached nearer, I easily perceived the traces 
of cultivation. I saw vessels near the shore, and found myself suddenly 
transported back to the neighbourhood of civilised man. I carefully traced the 
windings of the land, and hailed a steeple which I at length saw issuing from 
behind a small promontory. As I was in a state of extreme debility, I resolved 
to sail directly towards the town, as a place where I could most easily 
procure nourishment. Fortunately I had money with me. As I turned the 
promontory, I perceived a small neat town and a good harbour, which I entered, 
my heart bounding with joy at my unexpected escape.
As I was occupied in fixing the boat and arranging the sails, several people 
crowded towards the spot. They seemed much surprised at my appearance; but, 
instead of offering me any assistance, whispered together with gestures that 
at any other time might have produced in me a slight sensation of alarm. As it 
was, I merely remarked that they spoke English; and I therefore addressed them 
in that language: "My good friends," said I, "will you be so kind as to tell 
me the name of this town, and inform me where I am?"
"You will know that soon enough," replied a man with a hoarse voice. "May be 
you are come to a place that will not prove much to your taste; but you will 
not be consulted as to your quarters, I promise you."
I was exceedingly surprised on receiving so rude an answer from a stranger; 
and I was also disconcerted on perceiving the frowning and angry countenances 
of his companions. "Why do you answer me so roughly?" I replied; "surely it is 
not the custom of Englishmen to receive strangers so inhospitably."
"I do not know," said the man, "what the custom of the English may be; but it 
is the custom of the Irish to hate villains."
While this strange dialogue continued, I perceived the crowd rapidly increase. 
Their faces expressed a mixture of curiosity and anger, which annoyed, and in 
some degree alarmed me. I enquired the way to the inn; but no one replied. I 
then moved forward, and a murmuring sound arose from the crowd as they 
followed and surrounded me; when an ill-looking man approached, tapped me on 
the shoulder, and said, "Come, sir, you must follow me to Mr. Kirwin's, to 
give an account of yourself."
"Who is Mr. Kirwin? Why am I to give an account of myself? Is not this a free 
country?"
"Ay, sir, free enough for honest folks. Mr. Kirwin is a magistrate; and you 
are to give an account of the death of a gentleman who was found murdered here 
last night."
This answer startled me; but I presently recovered myself. I was innocent; 
that could easily be proved; accordingly I followed my conductor in silence, 
and was led to one of the best houses in the town. I was ready to sink from 
fatigue and hunger; but, being surrounded by a crowd, I thought it politic to 
rouse all my strength, that no physical debility might be construed into 
apprehension or conscious guilt. Little did I then expect the calamity that 
was in a few moments to overwhelm me, and extinguish in horror and despair all 
fear of ignominy or death.
I must pause here; for it requires all my fortitude to recall the memory of 
the frightful events which I am about to relate, in proper detail, to my 
recollection.


Chapter 21

I was soon introduced into the presence of the magistrate, an old benevolent 
man, with calm and mild manners. He looked upon me, however, with some degree 
of severity: and then, turning towards my conductors, he asked who appeared as 
witnesses on this occasion.
About half a dozen men came forward; and, one being selected by the 
magistrate, he deposed, that he had been out fishing the night before with his 
son and brother-in-law, Daniel Nugent, when, about ten o'clock, they observed 
a strong northerly blast rising, and they accordingly put in for port. It was 
a very dark night, as the moon had not yet risen; they did not land at the 
harbour, but, as they had been accustomed, at a creek about two miles below. 
He walked on first, carrying a part of the fishing tackle, and his companions 
followed him at some distance. As he was proceeding along the sands, he struck 
his foot against something, and fell at his length on the ground. His 
companions came up to assist him; and, by the light of their lantern, they 
found that he had fallen on the body of a man, who was to all appearance dead. 
Their first supposition was, that it was the corpse of some person who had 
been drowned, and was thrown on shore by the waves; but, on examination, they 
found that the clothes were not wet, and even that the body was not then cold. 
They instantly carried it to the cottage of an old woman near the spot, and 
endeavoured, but in vain, to restore it to life. It appeared to be a handsome 
young man, about five and twenty years of age. He had apparently been 
strangled; for there was no sign of any violence, except the black mark of 
fingers on his neck.
The first part of this deposition did not in the least interest me; but when 
the mark of the fingers was mentioned, I remembered the murder of my brother, 
and felt myself extremely agitated; my limbs trembled, and a mist came over my 
eyes, which obliged me to lean on a chair for support. The magistrate observed 
me with a keen eye, and of course drew an unfavourable augury from my manner.
The son confirmed his father's account: but when Daniel Nugent was called, he 
swore positively that, just before the fall of his companion, he saw a boat, 
with a single man in it, at a short distance from the shore; and, as far as he 
could judge by the light of a few stars, it was the same boat in which I had 
just landed.
A woman deposed, that she lived near the beach, and was standing at the door 
of her cottage, waiting for the return of the fishermen, about an hour before 
she heard of the discovery of the body, when she saw a boat, with only one man 
in it, push off from that part of the shore where the corpse was afterwards 
found.
Another woman confirmed the account of the fishermen having brought the body 
into her house; it was not cold. They put it into a bed, and rubbed it; and 
Daniel went to the town for an apothecary, but life was quite gone.
Several other men were examined concerning my landing; and they agreed, that, 
with the strong north wind that had arisen during the night, it was very 
probable that I had beaten about for many hours, and had been obliged to 
return nearly to the same spot from which I had departed. Besides, they 
observed that it appeared that I had brought the body from another place, and 
it was likely, that as I did not appear to know the shore, I might have put 
into the harbour ignorant of the distance of the town of --- from the place 
where I had deposited the corpse.
Mr. Kirwin, on hearing this evidence, desired that I should be taken into the 
room where the body lay for interment, that it might be observed what effect 
the sight of it would produce upon me. This idea was probably suggested by the 
extreme agitation I had exhibited when the mode of the murder had been 
described. I was accordingly conducted, by the magistrate and several other 
persons, to the inn. I could not help being struck by the strange coincidences 
that had taken place during this eventful night; but, knowing that I had been 
conversing with several persons in the island I had inhabited about the time 
that the body had been found, I was perfectly tranquil as to the consequences 
of the affair.
I entered the room where the corpse lay, and was led up to the coffin. How can 
I describe my sensations on beholding it? I feel yet parched with horror, nor 
can I reflect on that terrible moment without shuddering and agony. The 
examination, the presence of the magistrate and witnesses, passed like a dream 
from my memory, when I saw the lifeless form of Henry Clerval stretched before 
me. I gasped for breath; and, throwing myself on the body, I exclaimed, "Have 
my murderous machinations deprived you also, my dearest Henry, of life? Two I 
have already destroyed; other victims await their destiny: but you, Clerval, 
my friend, my benefactor -"
The human frame could no longer support the agonies that I endured, and I was 
carried out of the room in strong convulsions.
A fever succeeded to this. I lay for two months on the point of death; my 
ravings, as I afterwards heard, were frightful; I called myself the murderer 
of William, of Justine, and of Clerval. Sometimes I entreated my attendants to 
assist me in the destruction of the fiend by whom I was tormented; and at 
others, I felt the fingers of the monster already grasping my neck, and 
screamed aloud with agony and terror. Fortunately, as I spoke my native 
language, Mr. Kirwin alone understood me; but my gestures and bitter cries 
were sufficient to affright the other witnesses.
Why did I not die? More miserable than man ever was before, why did I not sink 
into forgetfulness and rest? Death snatches away many blooming children, the 
only hopes of their doting parents; how many brides and youthful lovers have 
been one day in the bloom of health and hope, and the next a prey for worms 
and the decay of the tomb! Of what materials was I made, that I could thus 
resist so many shocks, which, like the turning of the wheel, continually 
renewed the torture?
But I was doomed to live; and, in two months, found myself as awaking from a 
dream, in a prison, stretched on a wretched bed, surrounded by gaolers, 
turnkeys, bolts, and all the miserable apparatus of a dungeon. It was morning, 
I remember, when I thus awoke to understanding: I had forgotten the 
particulars of what had happened, and only felt as if some great misfortune 
had suddenly overwhelmed me; but when I looked around, and saw the barred 
windows, and the squalidness of the room in which I was, all flashed across my 
memory, and I groaned bitterly.
This sound disturbed an old woman who was sleeping in a chair beside me. She 
was a hired nurse, the wife of one of the turnkeys, and her countenance 
expressed all those bad qualities which often characterise that class. The 
lines of her face were hard and rude, like that of persons accustomed to see 
without sympathising in sights of misery. Her tone expressed her entire 
indifference; she addressed me in English, and the voice struck me as one that 
I had heard during my sufferings: -
"Are you better now, sir?" said she.
I replied in the same language, with a feeble voice, "I believe I am; but if 
it be all true, if indeed I did not dream, I am sorry that I am still alive to 
feel this misery and horror.
"For that matter," replied the old woman, "if you mean about the gentleman you 
murdered, I believe that it were better for you if you were dead, for I fancy 
it will go hard with you! However, that's none of my business; I am sent to 
nurse you, and get you well; I do my duty with a safe conscience; it were well 
if every body did the same."
I turned with loathing from the woman who could utter so unfeeling a speech to 
a person just saved, on the very edge of death; but I felt languid, and unable 
to reflect on all that had passed. The whole series of my life appeared to me 
as a dream; I sometimes doubted if indeed it were all true, for it never 
presented itself to my mind with the force of reality.
As the images that floated before me became more distinct, I grew feverish; a 
darkness pressed around me: no one was near me who soothed me with the gentle 
voice of love; no dear hand supported me. The physician came and prescribed 
medicines, and the old woman prepared them for me; but utter carelessness was 
visible in the first, and the expression of brutality was strongly marked in 
the visage of the second. Who could be interested in the fate of a murderer, 
but the hangman who would gain his fee?
These were my first reflections; but I soon learned that Mr. Kirwin had shown 
me extreme kindness. He had caused the best room in the prison to be prepared 
for me (wretched indeed was the best); and it was he who had provided a 
physician and a nurse. It is true, he seldom came to see me; for, although he 
ardently desired to relieve the sufferings of every human creature, he did not 
wish to be present at the agonies and miserable ravings of a murderer. He 
came, therefore, sometimes, to see that I was not neglected; but his visits 
were short, and with long intervals.
One day, while I was gradually recovering, I was seated in a chair, my eyes 
half open, and my cheeks livid like those in death. I was overcome by gloom 
and misery, and often reflected I had better seek death than desire to remain 
in a world which to me was replete with wretchedness. At one time I considered 
whether I should not declare myself guilty, and suffer the penalty of the law, 
less innocent than poor Justine had been. Such were my thoughts, when the door 
of my apartment was opened, and Mr. Kirwin entered. His countenance expressed 
sympathy and compassion; he drew a chair close to mine, and addressed me in 
French -
"I fear that this place is very shocking to you; can I do any thing to make 
you more comfortable?"
"I thank you; but all that you mention is nothing to me: on the whole earth 
there is no comfort which I am capable of receiving."
"I know that the sympathy of a stranger can be but of little relief to one 
borne down as you are by so strange a misfortune. But you will, I hope, soon 
quit this melancholy abode; for, doubtless, evidence can easily be brought to 
free you from the criminal charge."
"That is my least concern: I am, by a course of strange events, become the 
most miserable of mortals. Persecuted and tortured as I am and have been, can 
death be any evil to me?"
"Nothing indeed could be more unfortunate and agonising than the strange 
chances that have lately occurred. You were thrown, by some surprising 
accident, on this shore, renowned for its hospitality; seized immediately, and 
charged with murder. The first sight that was presented to your eyes was the 
body of your friend, murdered in so unaccountable a manner, and placed, as it 
were, by some fiend across your path."
As Mr. Kirwin said this, notwithstanding the agitation I endured on this 
retrospect of my sufferings, I also felt considerable surprise at the 
knowledge he seemed to possess concerning me. I suppose some astonishment was 
exhibited in my countenance; for Mr. Kirwin hastened to say -
"Immediately upon your being taken ill, all the papers that were on your 
person were brought me, and I examined them that I might discover some trace 
by which I could send to your relations an account of your misfortune and 
illness. I found several letters, and, among others, one which I discovered 
from its commencement to be from your father. I instantly wrote to Geneva: 
nearly two months have elapsed since the departure of my letter. -But you are 
ill; even now you tremble: you are unfit for agitation of any kind."
"This suspense is a thousand times worse than the most horrible event: tell me 
what new scene of death has been acted, and whose murder I am now to lament?"
"Your family is perfectly well," said Mr. Kirwin, with gentleness; "and some 
one, a friend, is come to visit you."
I know not by what chain of thought, the idea presented itself, but it 
instantly darted into my mind that the murderer had come to mock at my misery, 
and taunt me with the death of Clerval, as a new incitement for me to comply 
with his hellish desires. I put my hand before my eyes, and cried out in agony -
"Oh! take him away! I cannot see him; for God's sake, do not let him enter!"
Mr. Kirwin regarded me with a troubled countenance. He could not help 
regarding my exclamation as a presumption of my guilt, and said, in rather a 
severe tone -
"I should have thought, young man, that the presence of your father would have 
been welcome, instead of inspiring such violent repugnance."
"My father!" cried I, while every feature and every muscle was relaxed from 
anguish to pleasure: "is my father indeed come? How kind, how very kind! But 
where is he, why does he not hasten to me?"
My change of manner surprised and pleased the magistrate; perhaps he thought 
that my former exclamation was a momentary return of delirium, and now he 
instantly resumed his former benevolence. He rose, and quitted the room with 
my nurse, and in a moment my father entered it.
Nothing, at this moment, could have given me greater pleasure than the arrival 
of my father. I stretched out my hand to him, and cried -
"Are you then safe -and Elizabeth -and Ernest?"
My father calmed me with assurances of their welfare, and endeavoured, by 
dwelling on these subjects so interesting to my heart, to raise my desponding 
spirits; but he soon felt that a prison cannot be the abode of cheerfulness. 
"What a place is this that you inhabit, my son!" said he, looking mournfully 
at the barred windows, and wretched appearance of the room. "You travelled to 
seek happiness, but a fatality seems to pursue you. And poor Clerval -"
The name of my unfortunate and murdered friend was an agitation too great to 
be endured in my weak state; I shed tears.
"Alas! yes, my father," replied I; "some destiny of the most horrible kind 
hangs over me, and I must live to fulfil it, or surely I should have died on 
the coffin of Henry."
We were not allowed to converse for any length of time, for the precarious 
state of my health rendered every precaution necessary that could ensure 
tranquillity. Mr. Kirwin came in, and insisted that my strength should not be 
exhausted by too much exertion. But the appearance of my father was to me like 
that of my good angel, and I gradually recovered my health.
As my sickness quitted me, I was absorbed by a gloomy and black melancholy, 
that nothing could dissipate. The image of Clerval was for ever before me, 
ghastly and murdered. More than once the agitation into which these 
reflections threw me made my friends dread a dangerous relapse. Alas! why did 
they preserve so miserable and detested a life? It was surely that I might 
fulfil my destiny, which is now drawing to a close. Soon, oh! very soon, will 
death extinguish these throbbings, and relieve me from the mighty weight of 
anguish that bears me to the dust; and, in executing the award of justice, I 
shall also sink to rest. Then the appearance of death was distant, although 
the wish was ever present to my thoughts; and I often sat for hours motionless 
and speechless, wishing for some mighty revolution that might bury me and my 
destroyer in its ruins.
The season of the assizes approached. I had already been three months in 
prison; and although I was still weak, and in continual danger of a relapse, I 
was obliged to travel nearly a hundred miles to the county-town, where the 
court was held. Mr. Kirwin charged himself with every care of collecting 
witnesses, and arranging my defence. I was spared the disgrace of appearing 
publicly as a criminal as the case was not brought before the court that 
decides on life and death. The grand jury rejected the bill, on its being 
proved that I was on the Orkney Islands at the hour the body of my friend was 
found; and a fortnight after my removal I was liberated from prison.
My father was enraptured on finding me freed from the vexations of a criminal 
charge, that I was again allowed to breathe the fresh atmosphere, and 
permitted to return to my native country. I did not participate in these 
feelings; for to me the walls of a dungeon or a palace were alike hateful. The 
cup of life was poisoned for ever; and although the sun shone upon me, as upon 
the happy and gay of heart, I saw around me nothing but a dense and frightful 
darkness, penetrated by no light but the glimmer of two eyes that glared upon 
me. Sometimes they were the expressive eyes of Henry, languishing in death, 
the dark orbs nearly covered by the lids, and the long black lashes that 
fringed them; sometimes it was the watery, clouded eyes of the monster, as I 
first saw them in my chamber at Ingolstadt.
My father tried to awaken in me the feelings of affection. He talked of 
Geneva, which I should soon visit -of Elizabeth and Ernest; but these words 
only drew deep groans from me. Sometimes, indeed, I felt a wish for happiness; 
and thought, with melancholy delight, of my beloved cousin; or longed, with a 
devouring maladie du pays, to see once more the blue lake and rapid Rhone, 
that had been so dear to me in early childhood: but my general state of 
feeling was a torpor, in which a prison was as welcome a residence as the 
divinest scene in nature; and these fits were seldom interrupted but by 
paroxysms of anguish and despair. At these moments I often endeavoured to put 
an end to the existence I loathed; and it required unceasing attendance and 
vigilance to restrain me from committing some dreadful act of violence.
Yet one duty remained to me, the recollection of which finally triumphed over 
my selfish despair. It was necessary that I should return without delay to 
Geneva, there to watch over the lives of those I so fondly loved; and to lie 
in wait for the murderer, that if any chance led me to the place of his 
concealment, or if he dared again to blast me by his presence, I might, with 
unfailing aim, put an end to the existence of the monstrous Image which I had 
endued with the mockery of a soul still more monstrous. My father still 
desired to delay our departure, fearful that I could not sustain the fatigues 
of a journey: for I was a shattered wreck, -the shadow of a human being. My 
strength was gone. I was a mere skeleton; and fever night and day preyed upon 
my wasted frame.
Still, as I urged our leaving Ireland with such inquietude and impatience, my 
father thought it best to yield. We took our passage on board a vessel bound 
for Havre-de-Grace, and sailed with a fair wind from the Irish shores. It was 
midnight. I lay on the deck, looking at the stars, and listening to the 
dashing of the waves. I hailed the darkness that shut Ireland from my sight; 
and my pulse beat with a feverish joy when I reflected that I should soon see 
Geneva. The past appeared to me in the light of a frightful dream; yet the 
vessel in which I was, the wind that blew me from the detested shore of 
Ireland, and the sea which surrounded me, told me too forcibly that I was 
deceived by no vision, and that Clerval, my friend and dearest companion, had 
fallen a victim to me and the monster of my creation. I repassed, in my 
memory, my whole life; my quiet happiness while residing with my family in 
Geneva, the death of my mother, and my departure for Ingolstadt. I remembered, 
shuddering, the mad enthusiasm that hurried me on to the creation of my 
hideous enemy, and I called to mind the night in which he first lived. I was 
unable to pursue the train of thought; a thousand feelings pressed upon me, 
and I wept bitterly.
Ever since my recovery from the fever, I had been in the custom of taking 
every night a small quantity of laudanum; for it was by means of this drug 
only that I was enabled to gain the rest necessary for the preservation of 
life. Oppressed by the recollection of my various misfortunes, I now swallowed 
double my usual quantity, and soon slept profoundly. But sleep did not afford 
me respite from thought and misery; my dreams presented a thousand objects 
that scared me. Towards morning I was possessed by a kind of nightmare; I felt 
the fiend's grasp in my neck, and could not free myself from it; groans and 
cries rung in my ears. My father, who was watching over me, perceiving my 
restlessness, awoke me; the dashing waves were around: the cloudy sky above; 
the fiend was not here: a sense of security, a feeling that a truce was 
established between the present hour and the irresistible, disastrous future, 
imparted to me a kind of calm forgetfulness, of which the human mind is by its 
structure peculiarly susceptible.


Chapter 22

The voyage came to an end. We landed, and proceeded to Paris. I soon found 
that I had overtaxed my strength, and that I must repose before I could 
continue my journey. My father's care and attentions were indefatigable; but 
he did not know the origin of my sufferings, and sought erroneous methods to 
remedy the incurable ill. He wished me to seek amusement in society. I 
abhorred the face of man. Oh, not abhorred! they were my brethren, my 
fellow-beings, and I felt attracted even to the most repulsive among them, as 
to creatures of an angelic nature and celestial mechanism. But I felt that I 
had no right to share their intercourse. I had unchained an enemy among them, 
whose joy it was to shed their blood, and to revel in their groans. How they 
would, each and all, abhor me, and hunt me from the world, did they know my 
unhallowed acts, and the crimes which had their source in me!
My father yielded at length to my desire to avoid society, and strove by 
various arguments to banish my despair. Sometimes he thought that I felt 
deeply the degradation of being obliged to answer a charge of murder, and he 
endeavoured to prove to me the futility of pride.
"Alas! my father," said I, "how little do you know me. Human beings, their 
feelings and passions, would indeed be degraded if such a wretch as I felt 
pride. Justine, poor unhappy Justine, was as innocent as I, and she suffered 
the same charge; she died for it; and I am the cause of this -I murdered her. 
William, Justine, and Henry -they all died by my hands."
My father had often, during my imprisonment, heard me make the same assertion; 
when I thus accused myself, he sometimes seemed to desire an explanation, and 
at others he appeared to consider it as the offspring of delirium, and that, 
during my illness, some idea of this kind had presented itself to my 
imagination, the remembrance of which I preserved in my convalescence. I 
avoided explanation, and maintained a continual silence concerning the wretch 
I had created. I had a persuasion that I should be supposed mad; and this in 
itself would for ever have chained my tongue. But, besides, I could not bring 
myself to disclose a secret which would fill my hearer with consternation, and 
make fear and unnatural horror the inmates of his breast. I checked, 
therefore, my impatient thirst for sympathy, and was silent when I would have 
given the world to have confided the fatal secret. Yet still words like those 
I have recorded, would burst uncontrollably from me. I could offer no 
explanation of them; but their truth in part relieved the burden of my 
mysterious woe.
Upon this occasion my father said, with an expression of unbounded wonder. "My 
dearest Victor, what infatuation is this? My dear son, I entreat you never to 
make such an assertion again."
"I am not mad," I cried energetically; "the sun and the heavens, who have 
viewed my operations, can bear witness of my truth. I am the assassin of those 
most innocent victims; they died by my machinations. A thousand times would I 
have shed my own blood, drop by drop, to have saved their lives; but I could 
not, my father, indeed I could not sacrifice the whole human race."
The conclusion of this speech convinced my father that my ideas were deranged, 
and he instantly changed the subject of our conversation, and endeavoured to 
alter the course of my thoughts. He wished as much as possible to obliterate 
the memory of the scenes that had taken place in Ireland, and never alluded to 
them, or suffered me to speak of my misfortunes.
As time passed away I became more calm: misery had her dwelling in my heart, 
but I no longer talked in the same incoherent manner of my own crimes; 
sufficient for me was the consciousness of them. By the utmost self-violence, 
I curbed the imperious voice of wretchedness, which sometimes desired to 
declare itself to the whole world; and my manners were calmer and more 
composed than they had ever been since my journey to the sea of ice.
A few days before we left Paris on our way to Switzerland, I received the 
following letter from Elizabeth: -

"My dear Friend, -It gave me the greatest pleasure to receive a letter from my 
uncle dated at Paris; you are no longer at a formidable distance, and I may 
hope to see you in less than a fortnight. My poor cousin, how much you must 
have suffered! I expect to see you looking even more ill than when you quitted 
Geneva. This winter has been passed most miserably, tortured as I have been by 
anxious suspense; yet I hope to see peace in your countenance, and to find 
that your heart is not totally void of comfort and tranquillity.
"Yet I fear that the same feelings now exist that made you so miserable a year 
ago even perhaps augmented by time. I would not disturb you at this period, 
when so many misfortunes weigh upon you; but a conversation that I had with my 
uncle previous to his departure renders some explanation necessary before we 
meet.
"Explanation! you may possibly say; what can Elizabeth have to explain? If you 
really say this, my questions are answered, and all my doubts satisfied. But 
you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread, and yet be 
pleased with this explanation; and, in a probability of this being the case, I 
dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often 
wished to express to you, but have never had the courage to begin.
"You well know, Victor, that our union had been the favourite plan of your 
parents ever since our infancy. We were told this when young, and taught to 
look forward to it as an event that would certainly take place. We were 
affectionate playfellows during childhood, and, I believe, dear and valued 
friends to one another as we grew older. But as brother and sister often 
entertain a lively affection towards each other, without desiring a more 
intimate union, may not such also be our case? Tell me, dearest Victor. Answer 
me, I conjure you, by our mutual happiness, with simple truth -Do you not love 
another?
"You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt; 
and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, 
flying to solitude, from the society of every creature, I could not help 
supposing that you might regret our connection, and believe yourself bound in 
honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although they opposed themselves 
to your inclinations. But this is false reasoning. I confess to you, my 
friend, that I love you, and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been 
my constant friend and companion. But it is your happiness I desire as well as 
my own, when I declare to you, that our marriage would render me eternally 
miserable, unless it were the dictate of your own free choice. Even now I weep 
to think, that, borne down as you are by the cruellest misfortunes, you may 
stifle, by the word honour, all hope of that love and happiness which would 
alone restore you to yourself. I, who have so disinterested an affection for 
you, may increase your miseries tenfold, by being an obstacle to your wishes. 
Ah! Victor, be assured that your cousin and playmate has too sincere a love 
for you not to be made miserable by this supposition. Be happy, my friend; and 
if you obey me in this one request, remain satisfied that nothing on earth 
will have the power to interrupt my tranquillity.
"Do not let this letter disturb you; do not answer tomorrow, or the next day, 
or even until you come, if it will give you pain. My uncle will send me news 
of your health; and if I see but one smile on your lips when we meet, 
occasioned by this or any other exertion of mine, I shall need no other 
happiness.

ELIZABETH LAVENZA.
Geneva, May 18th, 17--."

This letter revived in my memory what I had before forgotten, the threat of 
the fiend -"I will be with you on your wedding-night!" Such was my sentence, 
and on that night would the daemon employ every art to destroy me, and tear me 
from the glimpse of happiness which promised partly to console my sufferings. 
On that night he had determined to consummate his crimes by my death. Well, be 
it so; a deadly struggle would then assuredly take place, in which if he were 
victorious I should be at peace, and his power over me be at an end. If he 
were vanquished, I should be a free man. Alas! what freedom? such as the 
peasant enjoys when his family have been massacred before his eyes, his 
cottage burnt, his lands laid waste, and he is turned adrift, homeless, 
penniless, and alone, but free. Such would be my liberty, except that in my 
Elizabeth I possessed a treasure; alas! balanced by those horrors of remorse 
and guilt, which would pursue me until death.
Sweet and beloved Elizabeth! I read and reread her letter, and some softened 
feelings stole into my heart, and dared to whisper paradisaical dreams of love 
and joy; but the apple was already eaten, and the angel's arm bared to drive 
me from all hope. Yet I would die to make her happy. If the monster executed 
his threat, death was inevitable; yet, again, I considered whether my marriage 
would hasten my fate. My destruction might indeed arrive a few months sooner; 
but if my torturer should suspect that I postponed it, influenced by his 
menaces, he would surely find other, and perhaps more dreadful means of 
revenge. He had vowed to be with me on my wedding-night, yet he did not 
consider that threat as binding him to peace in the mean time; for, as if to 
show me that he was not yet satiated with blood, he had murdered Clerval 
immediately after the enunciation of his threats. I resolved, therefore, that 
if my immediate union with my cousin would conduce either to hers or my 
father's happiness, my adversary's designs against my life should not retard 
it a single hour.
In this state of mind I wrote to Elizabeth. My letter was calm and 
affectionate. "I fear, my beloved girl," I said, "little happiness remains for 
us on earth; yet all that I may one day enjoy is centred in you. Chase away 
your idle fears; to you alone do I consecrate my life, and my endeavours for 
contentment. I have one secret, Elizabeth, a dreadful one; when revealed to 
you, it will chill your frame with horror, and then, far from being surprised 
at my misery, you will only wonder that I survive what I have endured. I will 
confide this tale of misery and terror to you the day after our marriage shall 
take place; for, my sweet cousin, there must be perfect confidence between us. 
But until then, I conjure you, do not mention or allude to it. This I most 
earnestly entreat, and I know you will comply."
In about a week after the arrival of Elizabeth's letter, we returned to 
Geneva. The sweet girl welcomed me with warm affection; yet tears were in her 
eyes, as she beheld my emaciated frame and feverish cheeks. I saw a change in 
her also. She was thinner, and had lost much of that heavenly vivacity that 
had before charmed me; but her gentleness, and soft looks of compassion, made 
her a more fit companion for one blasted and miserable as I was.
The tranquillity which I now enjoyed did not endure. Memory brought madness 
with it; and when I thought of what had passed, a real insanity possessed me; 
sometimes I was furious, and burnt with rage, sometimes low and despondent. I 
neither spoke, nor looked at any one, but sat motionless, bewildered by the 
multitude of miseries that overcame me.
Elizabeth alone had the power to draw me from these fits; her gentle voice 
would soothe me when transported by passion, and inspire me with human 
feelings when sunk in torpor. She wept with me, and for me. When reason 
returned, she would remonstrate, and endeavour to inspire me with resignation. 
Ah! it is well for the unfortunate to be resigned, but for the guilty there is 
no peace. The agonies of remorse poison the luxury there is otherwise 
sometimes found in indulging the excess of grief.
Soon after my arrival, my father spoke of my immediate marriage with 
Elizabeth. I remained silent.
"Have you, then, some other attachment?"
"None on earth. I love Elizabeth, and look forward to our union with delight. 
Let the day therefore be fixed; and on it I will consecrate myself, in life or 
death, to the happiness of my cousin."
"My dear Victor, do not speak thus. Heavy misfortunes have befallen us; but 
let us only cling closer to what remains, and transfer our love for those whom 
we have lost, to those who yet live. Our circle will be small, but bound close 
by the ties of affection and mutual misfortune. And when time shall have 
softened your despair, new and dear objects of care will be born to replace 
those of whom we have been so cruelly deprived."
Such were the lessons of my father. But to me the remembrance of the threat 
returned: nor can you wonder, that, omnipotent as the fiend had yet been in 
his deeds of blood, I should almost regard him as invincible; and that when he 
had pronounced the words, "I shall be with you on your wedding-night," I 
should regard the threatened fate as unavoidable. But death was no evil to me, 
if the loss of Elizabeth were balanced with it; and I therefore, with a 
contented and even cheerful countenance, agreed with my father, that if my 
cousin would consent, the ceremony should take place in ten days, and thus 
put, as I imagined, the seal to my fate.
Great God! if for one instant I had thought what might be the hellish 
intention of my fiendish adversary, I would rather have banished myself for 
ever from my native country, and wandered a friendless outcast over the earth, 
than have consented to this miserable marriage. But, as if possessed of magic 
powers, the monster had blinded me to his real intentions; and when I thought 
that I had prepared only my own death, I hastened that of a far dearer victim.
As the period fixed for our marriage drew nearer, whether from cowardice or a 
prophetic feeling, I felt my heart sink within me. But I concealed my feelings 
by an appearance of hilarity, that brought smiles and joy to the countenance 
of my father, but hardly deceived the ever-watchful and nicer eye of 
Elizabeth. She looked forward to our union with placid contentment, not 
unmingled with a little fear, which past misfortunes had impressed, that what 
now appeared certain and tangible happiness, might soon dissipate into an airy 
dream, and leave no trace but deep and everlasting regret.
Preparations were made for the event; congratulatory visits were received; and 
all wore a smiling appearance. I shut up, as well as I could, in my own heart 
the anxiety that preyed there, and entered with seeming earnestness into the 
plans of my father, although they might only serve as the decorations of my 
tragedy. Through my father's exertions, a part of the inheritance of Elizabeth 
had been restored to her by the Austrian government. A small possession on the 
shores of Como belonged to her. It was agreed that, immediately after our 
union, we should proceed to Villa Lavenza, and spend our first days of 
happiness beside the beautiful lake near which it stood.
In the mean time I took every precaution to defend my person, in case the 
fiend should openly attack me. I carried pistols and a dagger constantly about 
me, and was ever on the watch to prevent artifice; and by these means gained a 
greater degree of tranquillity. Indeed, as the period approached, the threat 
appeared more as a delusion, not to be regarded as worthy to disturb my peace, 
while the happiness I hoped for in my marriage wore a greater appearance of 
certainty, as the day fixed for its solemnisation drew nearer, and I heard it 
continually spoken of as an occurrence which no accident could possibly prevent.
Elizabeth seemed happy; my tranquil demeanour contributed greatly to calm her 
mind. But on the day that was to fulfil my wishes and my destiny, she was 
melancholy, and a presentiment of evil pervaded her; and perhaps also she 
thought of the dreadful secret which I had promised to reveal to her on the 
following day. My father was in the mean time overjoyed, and, in the bustle of 
preparation, only recognised in the melancholy of his niece the diffidence of 
a bride.
After the ceremony was performed, a large party assembled at my father's; but 
it was agreed that Elizabeth and I should commence our journey by water, 
sleeping that night at Evian, and continuing our voyage on the following day. 
The day was fair, the wind favourable, all smiled on our nuptial embarkation.
Those were the last moments of my life during which I enjoyed the feeling of 
happiness. We passed rapidly along: the sun was hot, but we were sheltered 
from its rays by a kind of canopy, while we enjoyed the beauty of the scene, 
sometimes on one side of the lake, where we saw Mont Saleve, the pleasant 
banks of Montalegre, and at a distance, surmounting all, the beautiful Mont 
Blanc, and the assemblage of snowy mountains that in vain endeavour to emulate 
her; sometimes coasting the opposite banks, we saw the mighty Jura opposing 
its dark side to the ambition that would quit its native country, and an 
almost insurmountable barrier to the invader who should wish to enslave it.
I took the hand of Elizabeth: "You are sorrowful, my love. Ah! if you knew 
what I have suffered, and what I may yet endure, you would endeavour to let me 
taste the quiet and freedom from despair, that this one day at least permits 
me to enjoy."
"Be happy, my dear Victor," replied Elizabeth; "there is, I hope, nothing to 
distress you; and be assured that if a lively joy is not painted in my face, 
my heart is contented. Something whispers to me not to depend too much on the 
prospect that is opened before us; but I will not listen to such a sinister 
voice. Observe how fast we move along, and how the clouds, which sometimes 
obscure and sometimes rise above the dome of Mont Blanc, render this scene of 
beauty still more interesting. Look also at the innumerable fish that are 
swimming in the clear waters, where we can distinguish every pebble that lies 
at the bottom. What a divine day! how happy and serene all nature appears!"
Thus Elizabeth endeavoured to divert her thoughts and mine from all reflection 
upon melancholy subjects. But her temper was fluctuating; joy for a few 
instants shone in her eyes, but it continually gave place to distraction and 
reverie.
The sun sunk lower in the heavens; we passed the river Drance, and observed 
its path through the chasms of the higher, and the glens of the lower hills. 
The Alps here come closer to the lake, and we approached the amphitheatre of 
mountains which forms its eastern boundary. The spire of Evian shone under the 
woods that surrounded it, and the range of mountain above mountain by which it 
was overhung.
The wind, which had hitherto carried us along with amazing rapidity, sunk at 
sunset to a light breeze; the soft air just ruffled the water, and caused a 
pleasant motion among the trees as we approached the shore, from which it 
wafted the most delightful scent of flowers and hay. The sun sunk beneath the 
horizon as we landed; and as I touched the shore, I felt those cares and fears 
revive, which soon were to clasp me, and cling to me for ever.


Chapter 23

It was eight o'clock when we landed; we walked for a short time on the shore, 
enjoying the transitory light, and then retired to the inn, and contemplated 
the lovely scene of waters, woods, and mountains, obscured in darkness, yet 
still displaying their black outlines.
The wind, which had fallen in the south, now rose with great violence in the 
west. The moon had reached her summit in the heavens, and was beginning to 
descend; the clouds swept across it swifter than the flight of the vulture, 
and dimmed her rays, while the lake reflected the scene of the busy heavens, 
rendered still busier by the restless waves that were beginning to rise. 
Suddenly a heavy storm of rain descended.
I had been calm during the day; but so soon as night obscured the shapes of 
objects, a thousand fears arose in my mind. I was anxious and watchful, while 
my right hand grasped a pistol which was hidden in my bosom; every sound 
terrified me; but I resolved that I would sell my life dearly, and not shrink 
from the conflict until my own life, or that of my adversary, was extinguished.
Elizabeth observed my agitation for some time in timid and fearful silence; 
but there was something in my glance which communicated terror to her, and 
trembling she asked "What is it that agitates you, my dear Victor? What is it 
you fear?"
"Oh! peace, peace, my love," replied I; "this night, and all will be safe: but 
this night is dreadful, very dreadful."
I passed an hour in this state of mind, when suddenly I reflected how fearful 
the combat which I momentarily expected would be to my wife, and I earnestly 
entreated her to retire, resolving not to join her until I had obtained some 
knowledge as to the situation of my enemy.
She left me, and I continued some time walking up and down the passages of the 
house, and inspecting every corner that might afford a retreat to my 
adversary. But I discovered no trace of him, and was beginning to conjecture 
that some fortunate chance had intervened to prevent the execution of his 
menaces; when suddenly I heard a shrill and dreadful scream. It came from the 
room into which Elizabeth had retired. As I heard it, the whole truth rushed 
into my mind, my arms dropped, the motion of every muscle and fibre was 
suspended; I could feel the blood trickling in my veins, and tingling in the 
extremities of my limbs. This state lasted but for an instant; the scream was 
repeated, and I rushed into the room.
Great God! why did I not then expire! Why am I here to relate the destruction 
of the best hope, and the purest creature of earth? She was there, lifeless 
and inanimate, thrown across the bed, her head hanging down, and her pale and 
distorted features half covered by her hair. Every where I turn I see the same 
figure -her bloodless arms and relaxed form flung by the murderer on its 
bridal bier. Could I behold this, and live? Alas! life is obstinate, and 
clings closest where it is most hated. For a moment only did I lose 
recollection; I fell senseless on the ground.
When I recovered, I found myself surrounded by the people of the inn; their 
countenances expressed a breathless terror: but the horror of others appeared 
only as a mockery, a shadow of the feelings that oppressed me. I escaped from 
them to the room where lay the body of Elizabeth, my love, my wife, so lately 
living, so dear, so worthy. She had been moved from the posture in which I had 
first beheld her; and now, as she lay, her head upon her arm, and a 
handkerchief thrown across her face and neck I might have supposed her asleep. 
I rushed towards her, and embraced her with ardour; but the deadly languor and 
coldness of the limbs told me, that what I now held in my arms had ceased to 
be the Elizabeth whom I had loved and cherished. The murderous mark of the 
fiend's grasp was on her neck, and the breath had ceased to issue from her lips.
While I still hung over her in the agony of despair, I happened to look up. 
The windows of the room had before been darkened, and I felt a kind of panic 
on seeing the pale yellow light of the moon illuminate the chamber. The 
shutters had been thrown back; and, with a sensation of horror not to be 
described, I saw at the open window a figure the most hideous and abhorred. A 
grin was on the face of the monster; he seemed to jeer, as with his fiendish 
finger he pointed towards the corpse of my wife. I rushed towards the window, 
and drawing a pistol from my bosom, fired; but he eluded me, leaped from his 
station, and, running with the swiftness of lightning, plunged into the lake.
The report of the pistol brought a crowd into the room. I pointed to the spot 
where he had disappeared, and we followed the track with boats; nets were 
cast, but in vain. After passing several hours, we returned hopeless, most of 
my companions believing it to have been a form conjured up by my fancy. After 
having landed, they proceeded to search the country, parties going in 
different directions among the woods and vines.
I attempted to accompany them, and proceeded a short distance from the house; 
but my head whirled round, my steps were like those of a drunken man, I fell 
at last in a state of utter exhaustion; a film covered my eyes, and my skin 
was parched with the heat of fever. In this state I was carried back, and 
placed on a bed, hardly conscious of what had happened; my eyes wandered round 
the room, as if to seek something that I had lost.
After an interval, I arose, and, as if by instinct, crawled into the room 
where the corpse of my beloved lay. There were women weeping around -I hung 
over it, and joined my sad tears to theirs -all this time no distinct idea 
presented itself to my mind; but my thoughts rambled to various subjects, 
reflecting confusedly on my misfortunes, and their cause. I was bewildered in 
a cloud of wonder and horror. The death of William, the execution of Justine, 
the murder of Clerval, and lastly of my wife; even at that moment I knew not 
that my only remaining friends were safe from the malignity of the fiend; my 
father even now might be writhing under his grasp, and Ernest might be dead at 
his feet. This idea made me shudder, and recalled me to action. I started up, 
and resolved to return to Geneva with all possible speed.
There were no horses to be procured, and I must return by the lake; but the 
wind was unfavourable, and the rain fell in torrents. However, it was hardly 
morning, and I might reasonably hope to arrive by night. I hired men to row, 
and took an oar myself; for I had always experienced relief from mental 
torment in bodily exercise. But the overflowing misery I now felt, and the 
excess of agitation that I endured, rendered me incapable of any exertion. I 
threw down the oar; and leaning my head upon my hands, gave way to every 
gloomy idea that arose. If I looked up, I saw the scenes which were familiar 
to me in my happier time, and which I had contemplated but the day before in 
the company of her who was now but a shadow and a recollection. Tears streamed 
from my eyes. The rain had ceased for a moment, and I saw the fish play in the 
waters as they had done a few hours before; they had then been observed by 
Elizabeth. Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden 
change. The sun might shine, or the clouds might lower: but nothing could 
appear to me as it had done the day before. A fiend had snatched from me every 
hope of future happiness: no creature had ever been so miserable as I was; so 
frightful an event is single in the history of man.
But why should I dwell upon the incidents that followed this last overwhelming 
event? Mine has been a tale of horrors; I have reached their acme, and what I 
must now relate can but be tedious to you. Know that, one by one, my friends 
were snatched away; I was left desolate. My own strength is exhausted; and I 
must tell, in a few words, what remains of my hideous narration.
I arrived at Geneva. My father and Ernest yet lived; but the former sunk under 
the tidings that I bore. I see him now, excellent and venerable old man! his 
eyes wandered in vacancy, for they had lost their charm and their delight -his 
Elizabeth, his more than daughter, whom he doted on with all that affection 
which a man feels, who in the decline of life, having few affections, clings 
more earnestly to those that remain. Cursed, cursed be the fiend that brought 
misery on his grey hairs, and doomed him to waste in wretchedness! He could 
not live under the horrors that were accumulated around him; the springs of 
existence suddenly gave way: he was unable to rise from his bed, and in a few 
days he died in my arms.
What then became of me? I know not; I lost sensation, and chains and darkness 
were the only objects that pressed upon me. Sometimes, indeed, I dreamt that I 
wandered in flowery meadows and pleasant vales with the friends of my youth; 
but I awoke, and found myself in a dungeon. Melancholy followed, but by 
degrees I gained a clear conception of my miseries and situation, and was then 
released from my prison. For they had called me mad; and during many months, 
as I understood, a solitary cell had been my habitation.
Liberty, however, had been an useless gift to me, had I not, as I awakened to 
reason, at the same time awakened to revenge. As the memory of past 
misfortunes pressed upon me, I began to reflect on their cause -the monster 
whom I had created, the miserable daemon whom I had sent abroad into the world 
for my destruction. I was possessed by a maddening rage when I thought of him, 
and desired and ardently prayed that I might have him within my grasp to wreak 
a great and signal revenge on his cursed head.
Nor did my hate long confine itself to useless wishes; I began to reflect on 
the best means of securing him; and for this purpose, about a month after my 
release, I repaired to a criminal judge in the town, and told him that I had 
an accusation to make; that I knew the destroyer of my family; and that I 
required him to exert his whole authority for the apprehension of the murderer.
The magistrate listened to me with attention and kindness: -"Be assured, sir," 
said he, "no pains or exertions on my part shall be spared to discover the 
villain."
"I thank you," replied I; "listen, therefore, to the deposition that I have to 
make. It is indeed a tale so strange, that I should fear you would not credit 
it, were there not something in truth which, however wonderful, forces 
conviction. The story is too connected to be mistaken for a dream, and I have 
no motive for falsehood." My manner, as I thus addressed him, was impressive, 
but calm; I had formed in my own heart a resolution to pursue my destroyer to 
death; and this purpose quieted my agony, and for an interval reconciled me to 
life. I now related my history, briefly, but with firmness and precision, 
marking the dates with accuracy, and never deviating into invective or 
exclamation.
The magistrate appeared at first perfectly incredulous, but as I continued he 
became more attentive and interested; I saw him sometimes shudder with horror, 
at others a lively surprise, unmingled with disbelief, was painted on his 
countenance.
When I had concluded my narration, I said, "This is the being whom I accuse, 
and for whose seizure and punishment I call upon you to exert your whole 
power. It is your duty as a magistrate, and I believe and hope that your 
feelings as a man will not revolt from the execution of those functions on 
this occasion."
This address caused a considerable change in the physiognomy of my own 
auditor. He had heard my story with that half kind of belief that is given to 
a tale of spirits and supernatural events; but when he was called upon to act 
officially in consequence, the whole tide of his incredulity returned. He, 
however, answered mildly, "I would willingly afford you every aid in your 
pursuit; but the creature of whom you speak appears to have powers which would 
put all my exertions to defiance. Who can follow an animal which can traverse 
the sea of ice, and inhabit caves and dens where no man would venture to 
intrude? Besides, some months have elapsed since the commission of his crimes, 
and no one can conjecture to what place he has wandered, or what region he may 
now inhabit."
"I do not doubt that he hovers near the spot which I inhabit; and if he has 
indeed taken refuge in the Alps, he may be hunted like the chamois, and 
destroyed as a beast of prey. But I perceive your thoughts: you do not credit 
my narrative, and do not intend to pursue my enemy with the punishment which 
is his desert."
As I spoke, rage sparkled in my eyes; the magistrate was intimidated: -"You 
are mistaken," said he, "I will exert myself; and if it is in my power to 
seize the monster, be assured that he shall suffer punishment proportionate to 
his crimes. But I fear, from what you have yourself described to be his 
properties, that this will prove impracticable; and thus, while every proper 
measure is pursued, you should make up your mind to disappointment."
"That cannot be; but all that I can say will be of little avail. My revenge is 
of no moment to you; yet, while I allow it to be a vice, I confess that it is 
the devouring and only passion of my soul. My rage is unspeakable, when I 
reflect that the murderer, whom I have turned loose upon society, still 
exists. You refuse my just demand: I have but one resource; and I devote 
myself, either in my life or death, to his destruction."
I trembled with excess of agitation as I said this; there was a frenzy in my 
manner, and something, I doubt not, of that haughty fierceness which the 
martyrs of old are said to have possessed. But to a Genevan magistrate, whose 
mind was occupied by far other ideas than those of devotion and heroism, this 
elevation of mind had much the appearance of madness. He endeavoured to soothe 
me as a nurse does a child, and reverted to my tale as the effects of delirium.
"Man," I cried, "How ignorant art thou in thy pride of wisdom! Cease; you know 
not what it is you say."
I broke from the house angry and disturbed, and retired to meditate on some 
other mode of action.


Chapter 24

My present situation was one in which all voluntary thought was swallowed up 
and lost. I was hurried away by fury; revenge alone endowed me with strength 
and composure; it moulded my feelings, and allowed me to be calculating and 
calm, at periods when otherwise delirium or death would have been my portion.
My first resolution was to quit Geneva for ever; my country, which, when I was 
happy and beloved, was dear to me, now, in my adversity, became hateful. I 
provided myself with a sum of money, together with a few jewels which had 
belonged to my mother, and departed.
And now my wanderings began, which are to cease but with life. I have 
traversed a vast portion of the earth, and have endured all the hardships 
which travellers, in deserts and barbarous countries, are wont to meet. How I 
have lived I hardly know; many times have I stretched my failing limbs upon 
the sandy plain, and prayed for death. But revenge kept me alive; I dared not 
die, and leave my adversary in being.
When I quitted Geneva, my first labour was to gain some clue by which I might 
trace the steps of my fiendish enemy. But my plan was unsettled; and I 
wandered many hours round the confines of the town, uncertain what path I 
should pursue. As night approached, I found myself at the entrance of the 
cemetery where William, Elizabeth, and my father reposed. I entered it, and 
approached the tomb which marked their graves. Every thing was silent, except 
the leaves of the trees, which were gently agitated by the wind; the night was 
nearly dark; and the scene would have been solemn and affecting even to an 
uninterested observer. The spirits of the departed seemed to flit around, and 
to cast a shadow, which was felt but not seen, around the head of the mourner.
The deep grief which this scene had at first excited quickly gave way to rage 
and despair. They were dead, and I lived; their murderer also lived, and to 
destroy him I must drag out my weary existence. I knelt on the grass, and 
kissed the earth, and with quivering lips exclaimed, "By the sacred earth on 
which I kneel, by the shades that wander near me, by the deep and eternal 
grief that I feel, I swear; and by thee, O Night, and the spirits that preside 
over thee, to pursue the daemon, who caused this misery, until he or I shall 
perish in mortal conflict. For this purpose I will preserve my life: to 
execute this dear revenge, will I again behold the sun, and tread the green 
herbage of earth, which otherwise should vanish from my eyes for ever. And I 
call on you, spirits of the dead; and on you, wandering ministers of 
vengeance, to aid and conduct me in my work. Let the cursed and hellish 
monster drink deep of agony; let him feel the despair that now torments me."
I had begun my adjuration with solemnity, and an awe which almost assured me 
that the shades of my murdered friends heard and approved my devotion; but the 
furies possessed me as I concluded, and rage choked my utterance.
I was answered through the stillness of night by a loud and fiendish laugh. It 
rung on my ears long and heavily; the mountains re-echoed it, and I felt as if 
all hell surrounded me with mockery and laughter. Surely in that moment I 
should have been possessed by frenzy, and have destroyed my miserable 
existence, but that my vow was heard, and that I was reserved for vengeance. 
The laughter died away; when a well-known and abhorred voice, apparently close 
to my ear, addressed me in an audible whisper -"I am satisfied: miserable 
wretch! you have determined to live, and I am satisfied."
I darted towards the spot from which the sound proceeded; but the devil eluded 
my grasp. Suddenly the broad disk of the moon arose, and shone full upon his 
ghastly and distorted shape, as he fled with more than mortal speed.
I pursued him; and for many months this has been my task. Guided by a slight 
clue, I followed the windings of the Rhone, but vainly. The blue Mediterranean 
appeared; and, by a strange chance, I saw the fiend enter by night, and hide 
himself in a vessel bound for the Black Sea. I took my passage in the same 
ship; but he escaped, I know not how.
Amidst the wilds of Tartary and Russia, although he still evaded me, I have 
ever followed in his track. Sometimes the peasants, scared by this horrid 
apparition, informed me of his path; sometimes he himself, who feared that if 
I lost all trace of him, I should despair and die, left some mark to guide me. 
The snows descended on my head, and I saw the print of his huge step on the 
white plain. To you first entering on life, to whom care is new, and agony 
unknown, how can you understand what I have felt, and still feel? Cold, want, 
and fatigue, were the least pains which I was destined to endure; I was cursed 
by some devil, and carried about with me my eternal hell; yet still a spirit 
of good followed and directed my steps; and, when I most murmured, would 
suddenly extricate me from seemingly insurmountable difficulties. Sometimes, 
when nature, overcome by hunger, sunk under the exhaustion, a repast was 
prepared for me in the desert, that restored and inspirited me. The fare was, 
indeed, coarse, such as the peasants of the country ate; but I will not doubt 
that it was set there by the spirits that I had invoked to aid me. Often, when 
all was dry, the heavens cloudless, and I was parched by thirst, a slight 
cloud would bedim the sky, shed the few drops that revived me, and vanish.
I followed, when I could, the courses of the rivers; but the daemon generally 
avoided these, as it was here that the population of the country chiefly 
collected. In other places human beings were seldom seen; and I generally 
subsisted on the wild animals that crossed my path. I had money with me, and 
gained the friendship of the villagers by distributing it; or I brought with 
me some food that I had killed, which, after taking a small part, I always 
presented to those who had provided me with fire and utensils for cooking.
My life, as it passed thus, was indeed hateful to me, and it was during sleep 
alone that I could taste joy. O blessed sleep! often, when most miserable, I 
sank to repose, and my dreams lulled me even to rapture. The spirits that 
guarded me had provided these moments, or rather hours, of happiness, that I 
might retain strength to fulfil my pilgrimage. Deprived of this respite, I 
should have sunk under my hardships. During the day I was sustained and 
inspirited by the hope of night: for in sleep I saw my friends, my wife, and 
my beloved country; again I saw the benevolent countenance of my father, heard 
the silver tones of my Elizabeth's voice, and beheld Clerval enjoying health 
and youth. Often, when wearied by a toilsome march, I persuaded myself that I 
was dreaming until night should come, and that I should then enjoy reality in 
the arms of my dearest friends. What agonising fondness did I feel for them! 
how did I cling to their dear forms, as sometimes they haunted even my waking 
hours, and persuade myself that they still lived! At such moments vengeance, 
that burned within me, died in my heart, and I pursued my path towards the 
destruction of the daemon, more as a task enjoined by heaven, as the 
mechanical impulse of some power of which I was unconscious, than as the 
ardent desire of my soul.
What his feelings were whom I pursued I cannot know. Sometimes, indeed, he 
left marks in writing on the barks of the trees, or cut in stone, that guided 
me, and instigated my fury. "My reign is not yet over," (these words were 
legible in one of these inscriptions;) "you live, and my power is complete. 
Follow me; I seek the everlasting ices of the north, where you will feel the 
misery of cold and frost to which I am impassive. You will find near this 
place, if you follow not too tardily, a dead hare; eat, and be refreshed. Come 
on, my enemy; we have yet to wrestle for our lives; but many hard and 
miserable hours must you endure until that period shall arrive."
Scoffing devil! Again do I vow vengeance; again do I devote thee, miserable 
fiend, to torture and death. Never will I give up my search, until he or I 
perish; and then with what ecstasy shall I join my Elizabeth, and my departed 
friends, who even now prepare for me the reward of my tedious toil and 
horrible pilgrimage!
As I still pursued my journey to the northward, the snows thickened, and the 
cold increased in a degree almost too severe to support. The peasants were 
shut up in their hovels, and only a few of the most hardy ventured forth to 
seize the animals whom starvation had forced from their hiding-places to seek 
for prey. The rivers were covered with ice, and no fish could be procured; and 
thus I was cut off from my chief article of maintenance.
The triumph of my enemy increased with the difficulty of my labours. One 
inscription that he left was in these words: -"Prepare! your toils only begin: 
wrap yourself in furs, and provide food; for we shall soon enter upon a 
journey where your sufferings will satisfy my everlasting hatred."
My courage and perseverance were invigorated by these scoffing words; I 
resolved not to fail in my purpose; and, calling on Heaven to support me, I 
continued with unabated fervour to traverse immense deserts, until the ocean 
appeared at a distance, and formed the utmost boundary of the horizon. Oh! how 
unlike it was to the blue seas of the south! Covered with ice, it was only to 
be distinguished from land by its superior wildness and ruggedness. The Greeks 
wept for joy when they beheld the Mediterranean from the hills of Asia, and 
hailed with rapture the boundary of their toils. I did not weep; but I knelt 
down, and, with a full heart, thanked my guiding spirit for conducting me in 
safety to the place where I hoped, notwithstanding my adversary's gibe, to 
meet and grapple with him.
Some weeks before this period I had procured a sledge and dogs, and thus 
traversed the snows with inconceivable speed. I know not whether the fiend 
possessed the same advantages; but I found that, as before I had daily lost 
ground in the pursuit, I now gained on him: so much so, that when I first saw 
the ocean, he was but one day's journey in advance, and I hoped to intercept 
him before he should reach the beach. With new courage, therefore, I pressed 
on, and in two days arrived at a wretched hamlet on the seashore. I enquired 
of the inhabitants concerning the fiend, and gained accurate information. A 
gigantic monster, they said, had arrived the night before, armed with a gun 
and many pistols; putting to flight the inhabitants of a solitary cottage, 
through fear of his terrific appearance. He had carried off their store of 
winter food, and, placing it in a sledge, to draw which he had seized on a 
numerous drove of trained dogs, he had harnessed them, and the same night, to 
the joy of the horror-struck villagers, had pursued his journey across the sea 
in a direction that led to no land; and they conjectured that he must speedily 
be destroyed by the breaking of the ice, or frozen by the eternal frosts.
On hearing this information, I suffered a temporary access of despair. He had 
escaped me; and I must commence a destructive and almost endless journey 
across the mountainous ices of the ocean, -amidst cold that few of the 
inhabitants could long endure, and which I, the native of a genial and sunny 
climate, could not hope to survive. Yet at the idea that the fiend should live 
and be triumphant, my rage and vengeance returned, and, like a mighty tide, 
overwhelmed every other feeling. After a slight repose, during which the 
spirits of the dead hovered round, and instigated me to toil and revenge, I 
prepared for my journey.
I exchanged my land-sledge for one fashioned for the inequalities of the 
Frozen Ocean; and purchasing a plentiful stock of provisions, I departed from 
land.
I cannot guess how many days have passed since then; but I have endured 
misery, which nothing but the eternal sentiment of a just retribution burning 
within my heart could have enabled me to support. Immense and rugged mountains 
of ice often barred up my passage, and I often heard the thunder of the ground 
sea, which threatened my destruction. But again the frost came, and made the 
paths of the sea secure.
By the quantity of provision which I had consumed, I should guess that I had 
passed three weeks in this journey; and the continual protraction of hope, 
returning back upon the heart, often wrung bitter drops of despondency and 
grief from my eyes. Despair had indeed almost secured her prey, and I should 
soon have sunk beneath this misery. Once, after the poor animals that conveyed 
me had with incredible toil gained the summit of a sloping ice-mountain, and 
one, sinking under his fatigue, died, I viewed the expanse before me with 
anguish, when suddenly my eye caught a dark speck upon the dusky plain. I 
strained my sight to discover what it could be, and uttered a wild cry of 
ecstasy when I distinguished a sledge, and the distorted proportions of a 
well-known form within. Oh! with what a burning gush did hope revisit my 
heart! warm tears filled my eyes, which I hastily wiped away, that they might 
not intercept the view I had of the daemon; but still my sight was dimmed by 
the burning drops, until, giving way to the emotions that oppressed me, I wept 
aloud.
But this was not the time for delay: I disencumbered the dogs of their dead 
companion, gave them a plentiful portion of food; and, after an hour's rest, 
which was absolutely necessary, and yet which was bitterly irksome to me, I 
continued my route. The sledge was still visible; nor did I again lose sight 
of it, except at the moments when for a short time some ice-rock concealed it 
with its intervening crags. I indeed perceptibly gained on it; and when, after 
nearly two days' journey, I beheld my enemy at no more than a mile distant, my 
heart bounded within me.
But now, when I appeared almost within grasp of my foe, my hopes were suddenly 
extinguished, and I lost all traces of him more utterly than I had ever done 
before. A ground sea was heard; the thunder of its progress, as the waters 
rolled and swelled beneath me, became every moment more ominous and terrific. 
I pressed on, but in vain. The wind arose; the sea roared; and, as with the 
mighty shock of an earthquake, it split, and cracked with a tremendous and 
overwhelming sound. The work was soon finished: in a few minutes a tumultuous 
sea rolled between me and my enemy, and I was left drifting on a scattered 
piece of ice, that was continually lessening, and thus preparing for me a 
hideous death.
In this manner many appalling hours passed; several of my dogs died; and I 
myself was about to sink under the accumulation of distress, when I saw your 
vessel riding at anchor, and holding forth to me hopes of succour and life. I 
had no conception that vessels ever came so far north, and was astounded at 
the sight. I quickly destroyed part of my sledge to construct oars; and by 
these means was enabled, with infinite fatigue, to move my ice-raft in the 
direction of your ship. I had determined, if you were going southward, still 
to trust myself to the mercy of the seas rather than abandon my purpose. I 
hoped to induce you to grant me a boat with which I could pursue my enemy. But 
your direction was northward. You took me on board when my vigour was 
exhausted, and I should soon have sunk under my multiplied hardships into a 
death which I still dread -for my task is unfulfilled.
Oh! when will my guiding spirit, in conducting me to the daemon, allow me the 
rest I so much desire; or must I die, and he yet live? If I do, swear to me, 
Walton, that he shall not escape; that you will seek him, and satisfy my 
vengeance in his death. And do I dare to ask of you to undertake my 
pilgrimage, to endure the hardships that I have undergone? No; I am not so 
selfish. Yet, when I am dead, if he should appear; if the ministers of 
vengeance should conduct him to you, swear that he shall not live -swear that 
he shall not triumph over my accumulated woes, and survive to add to the list 
of his dark crimes. He is eloquent and persuasive; and once his words had even 
power over my heart: but trust him not. His soul is as hellish as his form, 
full of treachery and fiend-like malice. Hear him not; call on the manes of 
William, Justine, Clerval, Elizabeth, my father, and of the wretched Victor, 
and thrust your sword into his heart. I will hover near, and direct the steel 
aright.

WALTON, in continuation.
August 26th, 17--.

You have read this strange and terrific story, Margaret; and do you not feel 
your blood congeal with horror, like that which even now curdles mine? 
Sometimes, seized with sudden agony, he could not continue his tale; at 
others, his voice broken, yet piercing, uttered with difficulty the words so 
replete with anguish. His fine and lovely eyes were now lighted up with 
indignation, now subdued to downcast sorrow, and quenched in infinite 
wretchedness. Sometimes he commanded his countenance and tones, and related 
the most horrible incidents with a tranquil voice, suppressing every mark of 
agitation; then, like a volcano bursting forth, his face would suddenly change 
to an expression of the wildest rage, as he shrieked out imprecations on his 
persecutor.
His tale is connected, and told with an appearance of the simplest truth; yet 
I own to you that the letters of Felix and Safie, which he showed me, and the 
apparition of the monster seen from our ship, brought to me a greater 
conviction of the truth of his narrative than his asseverations, however 
earnest and connected. Such a monster has then really existence! I cannot 
doubt it; yet I am lost in surprise and admiration. Sometimes I endeavoured to 
gain from Frankenstein the particulars of his creature's formation: but on 
this point he was impenetrable.
"Are you mad, my friend?" said he; "or whither does your senseless curiosity 
lead you? Would you also create for yourself and the world a demoniacal enemy? 
Peace, peace! learn my miseries, and do not seek to increase your own."
Frankenstein discovered that I made notes concerning his history: he asked to 
see them, and then himself corrected and augmented them in many places; but 
principally in giving the life and spirit to the conversations he held with 
his enemy. "Since you have preserved my narration," said he, "I would not that 
a mutilated one should go down to posterity."
Thus has a week passed away, while I have listened to the strangest tale that 
ever imagination formed. My thoughts, and every feeling of my soul have been 
drunk up by the interest for my guest, which this tale, and his own elevated 
and gentle manners, have created. I wish to soothe him; yet can I counsel one 
so infinitely miserable, so destitute of every hope of consolation, to live? 
Oh, no! the only joy that he can now know will be when he composes his 
shattered spirit to peace and death. Yet he enjoys one comfort, the offspring 
of solitude and delirium: he believes, that, when in dreams he holds converse 
with his friends, and derives from that communion consolation for his 
miseries, or excitements to his vengeance, that they are not the creations of 
his fancy, but the beings themselves who visit him from the regions of a 
remote world. This faith gives a solemnity to his reveries that render them to 
me almost as imposing and interesting as truth.
Our conversations are not always confined to his own history and misfortunes. 
On every point of general literature he displays unbounded knowledge, and a 
quick and piercing apprehension. His eloquence is forcible and touching; nor 
can I hear him, when he relates a pathetic incident, or endeavours to move the 
passions of pity or love, without tears. What a glorious creature must he have 
been in the days of his prosperity, when he is thus noble and godlike in ruin! 
He seems to feel his own worth, and the greatness of his fall.
"When younger," said he, "I believed myself destined for some great 
enterprise. My feelings are profound; but I possessed a coolness of judgment 
that fitted me for illustrious achievements. This sentiment of the worth of my 
nature supported me, when others would have been oppressed; for I deemed it 
criminal to throw away in useless grief those talents that might be useful to 
my fellow-creatures. When I reflected on the work I had completed, no less a 
one than the creation of a sensitive and rational animal, I could not rank 
myself with the herd of common projectors. But this thought, which supported 
me in the commencement of my career, now serves only to plunge me lower in the 
dust. All my speculations and hopes are as nothing; and, like the archangel 
who aspired to omnipotence, I am chained in an eternal hell. My imagination 
was vivid, yet my powers of analysis and application were intense; by the 
union of these qualities I conceived the idea, and executed the creation of a 
man. Even now I cannot recollect, without passion, my reveries while the work 
was incomplete. I trod heaven in my thoughts, now exulting in my powers, now 
burning with the idea of their effects. From my infancy I was imbued with high 
hopes and a lofty ambition; but how am I sunk! Oh! my friend, if you had known 
me as I once was, you would not recognise me in this state of degradation. 
Despondency rarely visited my heart; a high destiny seemed to bear me on, 
until I fell, never, never again to rise."
Must I then lose this admirable being? I have longed for a friend; I have 
sought one who would sympathise with and love me. Behold, on these desert seas 
I have found such a one; but, I fear, I have gained him only to know his 
value, and lose him. I would reconcile him to life, but he repulses the idea.
"I thank you, Walton," he said, "for your kind intentions towards so miserable 
a wretch; but when you speak of new ties, and fresh affections, think you that 
any can replace those who are gone? Can any man be to me as Clerval was; or 
any woman another Elizabeth? Even where the affections are not strongly moved 
by any superior excellence, the companions of our childhood always possess a 
certain power over our minds, which hardly any later friend can obtain. They 
know our infantine dispositions, which, however they may be afterwards 
modified, are never eradicated; and they can judge of our actions with more 
certain conclusions as to the integrity of our motives. A sister or a brother 
can never, unless indeed such symptoms have been shown early, suspect the 
other of fraud or false dealing, when another friend, however strongly he may 
be attached, may, in spite of himself, be contemplated with suspicion. But I 
enjoyed friends, dear not only through habit and association, but from their 
own merits; and wherever I am, the soothing voice of my Elizabeth, and the 
conversation of Clerval, will be ever whispered in my ear. They are dead; and 
but one feeling in such a solitude can persuade me to preserve my life. If I 
were engaged in any high undertaking or design, fraught with extensive utility 
to my fellow-creatures, then could I live to fulfil it. But such is not my 
destiny; I must pursue and destroy the being to whom I gave existence; then my 
lot on earth will be fulfilled, and I may die."

September 2nd.
My beloved Sister, -I write to you, encompassed by peril, and ignorant whether 
I am ever doomed to see again dear England, and the dearer friends that 
inhabit it. I am surrounded by mountains of ice, which admit of no escape, and 
threaten every moment to crush my vessel. The brave fellows, whom I have 
persuaded to be my companions, look towards me for aid; but I have none to 
bestow. There is something terribly appalling in our situation, yet my courage 
and hopes do not desert me. Yet it is terrible to reflect that the lives of 
all these men are endangered through me. If we are lost, my mad schemes are 
the cause.
And what, Margaret, will be the state of your mind? You will not hear of my 
destruction, and you will anxiously await my return. Years will pass, and you 
will have visitings of despair, and yet be tortured by hope. Oh! my beloved 
sister, the sickening failing of your heart-felt expectations is, in prospect, 
more terrible to me than my own death. But you have a husband, and lovely 
children; you may be happy: Heaven bless you, and make you so!
My unfortunate guest regards me with the tenderest compassion. He endeavours 
to fill me with hope; and talks as if life were a possession which he valued. 
He reminds me how often the same accidents have happened to other navigators, 
who have attempted this sea, and, in spite of myself, he fills me with 
cheerful auguries. Even the sailors feel the power of his eloquence: when he 
speaks, they no longer despair; he rouses their energies, and, while they hear 
his voice, they believe these vast mountains of ice are molehills, which will 
vanish before the resolutions of man. These feelings are transitory; each day 
of expectation delayed fills them with fear, and I almost dread a mutiny 
caused by this despair.

September 5th.
A scene has just passed of such uncommon interest, that although it is highly 
probable that these papers may never reach you, yet I cannot forbear recording 
it.
We are still surrounded by mountains of ice, still in imminent danger of being 
crushed in their conflict. The cold is excessive, and many of my unfortunate 
comrades have already found a grave amidst this scene of desolation. 
Frankenstein has daily declined in health: a feverish fire still glimmers in 
his eyes; but he is exhausted, and when suddenly roused to any exertion, he 
speedily sinks again into apparent lifelessness.
I mentioned in my last letter the fears I entertained of a mutiny. This 
morning, as I sat watching the wan countenance of my friend -his eyes half 
closed, and his limbs hanging listlessly, -I was roused by half a dozen of the 
sailors, who demanded admission into the cabin. They entered and their leader 
addressed me. He told me that he and his companions had been chosen by the 
other sailors to come in deputation to me, to make me a requisition, which, in 
justice, I could not refuse. We were immured in ice, and should probably never 
escape; but they feared that if , as was possible, the ice should dissipate, 
and a free passage be opened, I should be rash enough to continue my voyage, 
and lead them into fresh dangers, after they might happily have surmounted 
this. They insisted, therefore, that I should engage with a solemn promise, 
that if the vessel should be freed I would instantly direct my course southward.
This speech troubled me. I had not despaired; nor had I yet conceived the idea 
of returning, if set free. Yet could I, in justice, or even in possibility, 
refuse this demand? I hesitated before I answered; when Frankenstein, who had 
at first been silent, and, indeed, appeared hardly to have force enough to 
attend, now roused himself; his eyes sparkled, and his cheeks flushed with 
momentary vigour. Turning towards the men, he said -
"What do you mean? What do you demand of your captain? Are you then so easily 
turned from your design? Did you not call this a glorious expedition? And 
wherefore was it glorious? Not because the way was smooth and placid as a 
southern sea, but because it was full of dangers and terror; because, at every 
new incident, your fortitude was to be called forth, and your courage 
exhibited; because danger and death surrounded it, and these you were to brave 
and overcome. For this was it a glorious, for this was it an honourable 
undertaking. You were hereafter to be hailed as the benefactors of your 
species; your names adored, as belonging to brave men who encountered death 
for honour, and the benefit of mankind. And now, behold, with the first 
imagination of danger, or, if you will, the first mighty and terrific trial of 
your courage, you shrink away, and are content to be handed down as men who 
had not strength enough to endure cold and peril; and so, poor souls, they 
were chilly, and returned to their warm firesides. Why, that requires not this 
preparation; ye need not have come thus far, and dragged your captain to the 
shame of a defeat, merely to prove yourselves cowards. Oh! be men, or be more 
than men. Be steady to your purposes, and firm as a rock. This ice is not made 
of such stuff as your hearts may be; it is mutable, and cannot withstand you, 
if you say that it shall not. Do not return to your families with the stigma 
of disgrace marked on your brows. Return, as heroes who have fought and 
conquered, and who know not what it is to turn their backs on the foe."
He spoke this with a voice so modulated to the different feelings expressed in 
his speech, with an eye so full of lofty design and heroism, that can you 
wonder that these men were moved? They looked at one another, and were unable 
to reply. I spoke; I told them to retire, and consider of what had been said: 
that I would not lead them farther north, if they strenuously desired the 
contrary; but that I hoped that, with reflection, their courage would return.
They retired, and I turned towards my friend; but he was sunk in languor, and 
almost deprived of life.
How all this will terminate, I know not; but I had rather die than return 
shamefully, -my purpose unfulfilled. Yet I fear such will be my fate; the men, 
unsupported by ideas of glory and honour, can never willingly continue to 
endure their present hardships.

September 7th.
The die is cast; I have consented to return, if we are not destroyed. Thus are 
my hopes blasted by cowardice and indecision; I come back ignorant and 
disappointed. It requires more philosophy than I possess, to bear this 
injustice with patience.

September 12th.
It is past; I am returning to England. I have lost my hopes of utility and 
glory; -I have lost my friend. But I will endeavour to detail these bitter 
circumstances to you, my dear sister; and, while I am wafted towards England, 
and towards you, I will not despond.
September 9th, the ice began to move, and roarings like thunder were heard at 
a distance, as the islands split and cracked in every direction. We were in 
the most imminent peril; but, as we could only remain passive, my chief 
attention was occupied by my unfortunate guest, whose illness increased in 
such a degree, that he was entirely confined to his bed. The ice cracked 
behind us, and was driven with force towards the north; a breeze sprung from 
the west, and on the 11th the passage towards the south became perfectly free. 
When the sailors saw this, and that their return to their native country was 
apparently assured, a shout of tumultuous joy broke from them, loud and 
long-continued. Frankenstein, who was dozing, awoke, and asked the cause of 
the tumult. "They shout," I said, "because they will soon return to England."
"Do you then really return?"
"Alas! yes; I cannot withstand their demands. I cannot lead them unwillingly 
to danger, and I must return."
"Do so, if you will; but I will not. You may give up your purpose, but mine is 
assigned to me by Heaven, and I dare not. I am weak; but surely the spirits 
who assist my vengeance will endow me with sufficient strength." Saying this, 
he endeavoured to spring from the bed, but the exertion was too great for him; 
he fell back, and fainted.
It was long before he was restored; and I often thought that life was entirely 
extinct. At length he opened his eyes; he breathed with difficulty, and was 
unable to speak. The surgeon gave him a composing draught, and ordered us to 
leave him undisturbed. In the mean time he told me, that my friend had 
certainly not many hours to live.
His sentence was pronounced; and I could only grieve, and be patient. I sat by 
his bed, watching him; his eyes were closed, and I thought he slept; but 
presently he called to me in a feeble voice, and, bidding me come near, said 
-"Alas! the strength I relied on is gone; I feel that I shall soon die, and 
he, my enemy and persecutor, may still be in being. Think not, Walton, that in 
the last moments of my existence I feel that burning hatred, and ardent desire 
of revenge, I once expressed; but I feel myself justified in desiring the 
death of my adversary. During these last days I have been occupied in 
examining my past conduct; nor do I find it blameable. In a fit of 
enthusiastic madness I created a rational creature, and was bound towards him, 
to assure, as far as was in my power, his happiness and well-being. This was 
my duty; but there was another still paramount to that. My duties towards the 
beings of my own species had greater claims to my attention, because they 
included a greater proportion of happiness or misery. Urged by this view, I 
refused, and I did right in refusing, to create a companion for the first 
creature. He showed unparalleled malignity and selfishness, in evil: he 
destroyed my friends; he devoted to destruction beings who possessed exquisite 
sensations, happiness, and wisdom; nor do I know where this thirst for 
vengeance may end. Miserable himself, that he may render no other wretched, he 
ought to die. The task of his destruction was mine, but I have failed. When 
actuated by selfishness and vicious motives, I asked you to undertake my 
unfinished work; and I renew this request now, when I am only induced by 
reason and virtue.
"Yet I cannot ask you to renounce your country and friends, to fulfil this 
task; and now, that you are returning to England, you will have little chance 
of meeting with him. But the consideration of these points, and the well 
balancing of what you may esteem your duties, I leave to you; my judgment and 
ideas are already disturbed by the near approach of death. I dare not ask you 
to do what I think right, for I may still be misled by passion.
"That he should live to be an instrument of mischief disturbs me; in other 
respects, this hour, when I momentarily expect my release, is the only happy 
one which I have enjoyed for several years. The forms of the beloved dead flit 
before me, and I hasten to their arms. Farewell, Walton! Seek happiness in 
tranquillity, and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent 
one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries. Yet why do I say 
this? I have myself been blasted in these hopes, yet another may succeed."
His voice became fainter as he spoke; and at length, exhausted by his effort, 
he sunk into silence. About half an hour afterwards he attempted again to 
speak, but was unable; he pressed my hand feebly, and his eyes closed for 
ever, while the irradiation of a gentle smile passed away from his lips.
Margaret, what comment can I make on the untimely extinction of this glorious 
spirit? What can I say, that will enable you to understand the depth of my 
sorrow? All that I should express would be inadequate and feeble. My tears 
flow; my mind is overshadowed by a cloud of disappointment. But I journey 
towards England, and I may there find consolation.
I am interrupted. What do these sounds portend? It is midnight; the breeze 
blows fairly, and the watch on deck scarcely stir. Again; there is a sound as 
of a human voice, but hoarser; it comes from the cabin where the remains of 
Frankenstein still lie. I must arise, and examine. Good night, my sister.
Great God! what a scene has just taken place! I am yet dizzy with the 
remembrance of it. I hardly know whether I shall have the power to detail it; 
yet the tale which I have recorded would be incomplete without this final and 
wonderful catastrophe.
I entered the cabin, where lay the remains of my ill-fated and admirable 
friend. Over him hung a form which I cannot find words to describe; gigantic 
in stature, yet uncouth and distorted in its proportions. As he hung over the 
coffin, his face was concealed by long locks of ragged hair; but one vast hand 
was extended, in colour and apparent texture like that of a mummy. When he 
heard the sound of my approach, he ceased to utter exclamations of grief and 
horror, and sprung towards the window. Never did I behold a vision so horrible 
as his face, of such loathsome yet appalling hideousness. I shut my eyes 
involuntarily, and endeavoured to recollect what were my duties with regard to 
this destroyer. I called on him to stay.
He paused, looking on me with wonder; and, again turning towards the lifeless 
form of his creator, he seemed to forget my presence, and every feature and 
gesture seemed instigated by the wildest rage of some uncontrollable passion.
"That is also my victim!" he exclaimed: "in his murder my crimes are 
consummated; the miserable series of my being is wound to its close! Oh, 
Frankenstein! generous and self-devoted being! what does it avail that I now 
ask thee to pardon me? I, who irretrievably destroyed thee by destroying all 
thou lovedst. Alas! he is cold, he cannot answer me."
His voice seemed suffocated; and my first impulses, which had suggested to me 
the duty of obeying the dying request of my friend, in destroying his enemy, 
were now suspended by a mixture of curiosity and compassion. I approached this 
tremendous being; I dared not again raise my eyes to his face, there was 
something so scaring and unearthly in his ugliness. I attempted to speak, but 
the words died away on my lips. The monster continued to utter wild and 
incoherent self-reproaches. At length I gathered resolution to address him in 
a pause of the tempest of his passion: "Your repentance," I said, "is now 
superfluous. If you had listened to the voice of conscience, and heeded the 
stings of remorse, before you had urged your diabolical vengeance to this 
extremity, Frankenstein would yet have lived."
"And do you dream?" said the daemon; "do you think that I was then dead to 
agony and remorse? -He," he continued, pointing to the corpse, "he suffered 
not in the consummation of the deed -oh! not the ten-thousandth portion of the 
anguish that was mine during the lingering detail of its execution. A 
frightful selfishness hurried me on, while my heart was poisoned with remorse. 
Think you that the groans of Clerval were music to my ears? My heart was 
fashioned to be susceptible of love and sympathy; and, when wrenched by misery 
to vice and hatred, it did not endure the violence of the change, without 
torture such as you cannot even imagine.
"After the murder of Clerval, I returned to Switzerland, heart-broken and 
overcome. I pitied Frankenstein; my pity amounted to horror: I abhorred 
myself. But when I discovered that he, the author at once of my existence and 
of its unspeakable torments, dared to hope for happiness; that while he 
accumulated wretchedness and despair upon me, he sought his own enjoyment in 
feelings and passions from the indulgence of which I was for ever barred, then 
impotent envy and bitter indignation filled me with an insatiable thirst for 
vengeance. I recollected my threat, and resolved that it should be 
accomplished. I knew that I was preparing for myself a deadly torture; but I 
was the slave, not the master, of an impulse, which I detested, yet could not 
disobey. Yet when she died! -nay, then I was not miserable. I had cast off all 
feeling, subdued all anguish, to riot in the excess of my despair. Evil 
thenceforth became my good. Urged thus far, I had no choice but to adapt my 
nature to an element which I had willingly chosen. The completion of my 
demoniacal design became an insatiable passion. And now it is ended; there is 
my last victim!"
I was at first touched by the expressions of his misery; yet, when I called to 
mind what Frankenstein had said of his powers of eloquence and persuasion, and 
when I again cast my eyes on the lifeless form of my friend, indignation was 
rekindled within me. "Wretch!" I said "it is well that you come here to whine 
over the desolation that you have made. You throw a torch into a pile of 
buildings; and, when they are consumed, you sit among the ruins, and lament 
the fall. Hypocritical fiend! if he whom you mourn still lived, still would he 
be the object, again would he become the prey, of your accursed vengeance. It 
is not pity that you feel; you lament only because the victim of your 
malignity is withdrawn from your power."
"Oh, it is not thus -not thus," interrupted the being; "yet such must be the 
impression conveyed to you by what appears to be the purport of my actions. 
Yet I seek not a fellow-feeling in my misery. No sympathy may I ever find. 
When I first sought it, it was the love of virtue, the feelings of happiness 
and affection with which my whole being overflowed, that I wished to be 
participated. But now, that virtue has become to me a shadow, and that 
happiness and affection are turned into bitter and loathing despair, in what 
should I seek for sympathy? I am content to suffer alone, while my sufferings 
shall endure: when I die, I am well satisfied that abhorrence and opprobrium 
should load my memory. Once my fancy was soothed with dreams of virtue, of 
fame, and of enjoyment. Once I falsely hoped to meet with beings, who, 
pardoning my outward form, would love me for the excellent qualities which I 
was capable of unfolding. I was nourished with high thoughts of honour and 
devotion. But now crime has degraded me beneath the meanest animal. No guilt, 
no mischief, no malignity, no misery, can be found comparable to mine. When I 
run over the frightful catalogue of my sins, I cannot believe that I am the 
same creature whose thoughts were once filled with sublime and transcendent 
visions of the beauty and the majesty of goodness. But it is even so; the 
fallen angel becomes a malignant devil. Yet even that enemy of God and man had 
friends and associates in his desolation; I am alone.
"You, who call Frankenstein your friend, seem to have a knowledge of my crimes 
and his misfortunes. But, in the detail which he gave you of them, he could 
not sum up the hours and months of misery which I endured, wasting in impotent 
passions. For while I destroyed his hopes, I did not satisfy my own desires. 
They were for ever ardent and craving; still I desired love and fellowship, 
and I was still spurned. Was there no injustice in this? Am I to be thought 
the only criminal, when all human kind sinned against me? Why do you not hate 
Felix, who drove his friend from his door with contumely? Why do you not 
execrate the rustic who sought to destroy the saviour of his child? Nay, these 
are virtuous and immaculate beings! I, the miserable and the abandoned, am an 
abortion, to be spurned at, and kicked, and trampled on. Even now my blood 
boils at the recollection of this injustice.
"But it is true that I am a wretch. I have murdered the lovely and the 
helpless; I have strangled the innocent as they slept, and grasped to death 
his throat who never injured me or any other living thing. I have devoted my 
creator, the select specimen of all that is worthy of love and admiration 
among men, to misery; I have pursued him even to that irremediable ruin. There 
he lies, white and cold in death. You hate me; but your abhorrence cannot 
equal that with which I regard myself. I look on the hands which executed the 
deed; I think on the heart in which the imagination of it was conceived, and 
long for the moment when these hands will meet my eyes, when that imagination 
will haunt my thoughts no more.
"Fear not that I shall be the instrument of future mischief. My work is nearly 
complete. Neither yours nor any man's death is needed to consummate the series 
of my being, and accomplish that which must be done; but it requires my own. 
Do not think that I shall be slow to perform this sacrifice. I shall quit your 
vessel on the ice-raft which brought me thither, and shall seek the most 
northern extremity of the globe; I shall collect my funeral pile, and consume 
to ashes this miserable frame, that its remains may afford no light to any 
curious and unhallowed wretch, who would create such another as I have been. I 
shall die. I shall no longer feel the agonies which now consume me, or be the 
prey of feelings unsatisfied, yet unquenched. He is dead who called me into 
being; and when I shall be no more, the very remembrance of us both will 
speedily vanish. I shall no longer see the sun or stars, or feel the winds 
play on my cheeks. Light, feeling, and sense will pass away; and in this 
condition must I find my happiness. Some years ago, when the images which this 
world affords first opened upon me, when I felt the cheering warmth of summer, 
and heard the rustling of the leaves and the warbling of the birds, and these 
were all to me, I should have wept to die; now it is my only consolation. 
Polluted by crimes, and torn by the bitterest remorse, where can I find rest 
but in death?
"Farewell! I leave you, and in you the last of human kind whom these eyes will 
ever behold. Farewell, Frankenstein! If thou wert yet alive, and yet cherished 
a desire of revenge against me, it would be better satiated in my life than in 
my destruction. But it was not so; thou didst seek my extinction, that I might 
not cause greater wretchedness; and if yet, in some mode unknown to me, thou 
hadst not ceased to think and feel, thou wouldst not desire against me a 
vengeance greater than that which I feel. Blasted as thou wert, my agony was 
still superior to thine; for the bitter sting of remorse will not cease to 
rankle in my wounds until death shall close them for ever.
"But soon," he cried, with sad and solemn enthusiasm, "I shall die, and what I 
now feel be no longer felt. Soon these burning miseries will be extinct. I 
shall ascend my funeral pile triumphantly, and exult in the agony of the 
torturing flames. The light of that conflagration will fade away; my ashes 
will be swept into the sea by the winds. My spirit will sleep in peace; or if 
it thinks, it will not surely think thus. Farewell."
He sprung from the cabin-window, as he said this, upon the ice-raft which lay 
close to the vessel. He was soon borne away by the waves, and lost in darkness 
and distance.